Several nights in Tunisia

OH, SO MUTCH BETTER IN LE KEF

sergei272 — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 03:53:00 GMT

As if Carnival in Tozeur had not been enough, we awoke this morning to a fairly overpowering stench of sewer gas in our bathroom. Okay, okay, we're leaving already. There's no need for the walls to start bleeding...much as the red might go nicely with all the pink.

For our last meal in Tozeur, we're alone in the dining room, save for a few birds that have managed to sneak in through one of the windows slightly ajar. They swoop around the room while we quietly eat.

*****************

We're stuck in the front seat of what should be the first of three louage rides today. I'm certainly less ambivalent about leaving that was the case from Sidi Bou Said, Mahdia or Jerba. Now that we're clear of Tozeur and heading south, there's many more camels along the left side of the road. Oh yeah, camels. Whatever.

As we proceed south, the time has come for the collecting of money. This always happens at some point during the ride, aside from those originating from major hubs like Sfax. The change and bills are passed forward, although I wish the driver wouldn't extend his right palm back to get the money just now, as we're climbing a hill and a truck is coming down in the opposite lane.

I was a little nervous about the cash exchange in the midst of traffic and for much of the ride, our driver seemed pretty surly. But maybe he had as much trouble getting sleep last night as Lee and I. Any misgivings I had about him were banished when he made sure that we got to the correct van when we arrived in the louage lot in Gafsa this a bit earlier. We took our place in almost complete gridlock, our van frequently stopped or inching forward, other vehicles sliding by with virtually no clearance. But once we reached a stopping point, he walked us through a maze of vans for the next one bound for Kasserine, the next stop on our three-legged race north.

Having been slowed by construction north of Kasserine and another stop by typically stern members of the Garde Nationale, we're now moving quickly north.

THEY'RE SO ADORABLE UNTIL THEY START THREATENING YOU WITH ROCKS

sergei272 — Thu, 4 Mar 2010 09:14:00 GMT

You would think that sleeping in a giant sub-woofer would be quite conducive to a great night's sleep. Not so much as it turns out. At some seperate point for Lee and I, tiredness prevailed over the din of the mother of all parties and we fell asleep. Some sleep, satisfactory portions of hours, being better than a nice round number like eight.

Down in the restaurant, no real indications of the phantom festivities of last night. Once again, we precede our compatriot and his guides into the dining room. We they do arrive, they have the oft-mentioned Marie from last night with them. She seems very nice. The guy still seems a bore.

For the second straight day we have to endure a long wait before our louage departs. Today it's a day trip to Tamerza, nearly to the Algerian border northwest of Tozeur.

Again, the landscape is more arid than blatantly sandy as we proceed to Tamerza. Occasionally, fast-moving convoys of black SUV's whiz by our van. These apparently the conveyance of visitors staying at the Zone Touristique hotels in Tozeur. In time, the Chott el Gharsa, a relative miniature of the vast salt lake east and south of Tozeur, is evidenced by the white scorch of dried salt water along the ground and vegetation as we look to the west out of the left side of the louage. If we extend our gaze far enough toward the same horizon, it looks like there's still some water in the receding lake.

As we approach a small mountain before heading down into Tamerza, we're amused to see camel crossing signs. Sadly, no camels as yet though. The driver downshifts and I can hear the engine working harder as wind our way up the mountain. As we begin to take curves down the other side of the mountain, I hope that the louage system with which we have been so impressed includes routine maintenance on things like, oh, I don't know, breaks.

Whether the result of a conscientious break check or just good luck, we have survived and are walking around the main couple of streets of Tamerza beneath an immaculate blue sky. Perhaps it's just the quality of the light here, but the cloudless skies to which we have grown accustomed have not yet appeared this vibrantly blue.

We had initially walked a short distance up the hill toward the Redeyef/Mides road to get our bearings. Somewhere in the vicinity is supposed to be the old town of Tamerza, which was largely washed away during disastrous floods in 1969. But we saw no indication of it. So, we have come back to Avenue de l'Envrionnement, which runs perpendicular to the main drag and is taking us toward the gorge and one of the town's two cascades.

At the foot of the avenue is a hotel that my travel guide, rather accurately as it turns out describes as "grotty." Beyond issue of cleanliness, the free standing, palm-fronded cottages don't look terribly secure. I wouldn't get much sleep. Not only do we parade through part of the grounds of the hotel, but the walkway down to the gorge winds cleverly through a multi-level series of open air porches, with a souvenir stands perched at most every turn.

At the base of the steps and the shaded porches built into the face of the rock, there's quite open sandy exapanse in front of the cascade, presumably carved out over the centuries when the waterfall was more robust than is the case today. There's certainly not enough water in which to splash about - and it's not that hot, anyway - but any waterfall in the middle of a desert is still a novelty.

The area around Tozeur and Tamerza, as well as other sites around the country, was used for a number of locations in the English Patient. Within a hundred yards or so of the cascade, the gorge takes a sharp turn and narrows dramatically, with high walls of deeply ridged and craggy rock, golden brown where catching the full blast of the southern sun, more buff-colored on the shaded opposite side. This passage does seem familiar, much as I have read conflicting reports on where exactly certain scenes in the film were shot.

Whether immortalized in the English Patient or not, the gorge is very inviting. It's supposed to run for 4.5 kilometers west, all the way to Mides at the Algerian border. I'd love to make the entire walk, but apparently one is well advised to hire a guide. Sure enough, we see a small group, complete with guide, emerge a short while later. Just before Lee and I took the turn into this narrow channel of the gorge, two young Tunisian guys, emanating low-grade menace, preceded use in. They have gone ahead a couple of twists in the canyon and installed themselves, transistor radio blaring, like a couple of B-movie toughs from another era. What, one wonders, will similarly bored youths do in the future? How will one blare one's portable alienation with an MP3 player?

We have enjoyed are relatively brief divagation into the gorge, but we're leaving the boys to their well-advertised turf. As we walk back and cross the shallow stream, it's interesting to see an Arab family in front of the cascade, taking pictures. We haven't seen many tourists in general, but certainly no Arabs until now.

By the time we walk back up the steps, once again run the gamut of the strategically-placed little shops on each level, I'm starting to feel the desert heat for first time, much as I understand this is a very mild version.

As we trudge back up Avenue de l'Envrionnement, we're quite ready to patronize one of the restaurants we had walked by earlier. The Restaurant Chedli looks like the best of the lot and has a big, shaded outdoor seating area. Both the owner and a male assistant approach us as we walk in and direct us to a table. The assistant, in head scarf like his boss, moves in somewhat mysteriou ways, and I get the feeling I wouldn't comprehend his mumbling even if I understood Arabic, but he smiles a lot.

We're looking at the menus, and behold: there's couscous! Lee is quite thrilled. I order a rather more pedestrian kebab and fries. Before the main courses arrive, we (mainly me, as tends to be the case) enjoy the home-made harissa with bread. I love the harissa. When the food arrives, Lee's quite satisfied, both with the long-sought couscous and the bowl of chorba soup that accompanied it. Me, I got a chicken kebab and fries. What do I have to complain about. Without asking for it, we're also brought a desert plate consisting of the area's plentiful dates and a couple of ball-shaped, nut-covered sweets.

Once again, the intrepid explorers McLain and Burdett have set out to find the lost old town of Tamerza. Once again, they seem to have failed. At one point, while roaming around a neighborhood north of Avenue de l'Envrionnement, we did come upon a walled area. But it was alas, a walled area without any means of entry.

We did at least have a nice encounter with some kids playing on the otherwise deserted streets on the other side of the road to Redeyef. Lee took their picture, three boys together and one girl at the end. The boys all in jeans, the grey sweatshirts of the two boys on the right contrasted sharply with the red and yellow striped rugby shirt of the other boy. The small girl on the left - they all looked to be 10 to 12 - cute in her colorful headband, grey dress and dark leggings.

Aside from the photo of with the Tamerza kids, the main benefit of this otherwise fruitless divagation has been a view over the palmerie to the desert beyond. As we looked east out over the desert, it was a striking reminder how the brown, seemingly lifeless terrain explodes into life in the gorge with the profusion of palm trees and other vegetation. I can't imagine how welcome a sight the oases must have been to desert travelers.

**************************

All road apparently lead to the Squabbit. Actually, I'm quite thrilled to see the floppy-eared curiousity. We were just dropped off by the statue by a mystery man from Tamerza whom we hired to drive us back.

As we returned to the town center in Tamerza to await the next louage, a boy approached Lee and told her that the last louage for Tozeur had left for the day. But he knew somebody who could drive us to Tozeur. I did not have a good feeling about this and assumed we were being played. Lee seemed to think that it was okay. God knows neither of us wanted to be stuck in Tamerza for the night. With considerable reluctance, I agreed.

Before long, the driver appeared and we were in his car. My anxiety was not diminished by the fact that we set out in the wrong direction and then turned left into a back alley. As the car moved precariously close to a drop-off of some six feet or so, I thought, "What in the world are we doing?" I held my tongue long enough for the driver to stop behind what I assumed was his house so he could get some gas, which he produced in a plastic container. Once he had poured the modest amount, maybe a couple of gallons into the small car, we returned to the main road. As we turned toward the southbound lane, I saw two louages parked in the town center. Maybe they were bound for points north, or maybe we had just been duped.

Annoyed and uneasy as I was, at least our trip back offered better views out the car windows to the Chott el Gharsa. We also saw actual camels on a couple of occasions to go with the humorous camel crossing signs.

Before we got to the junction at which we would turn south and complete the journey to Tozeur, our driver without a word made a right turn down a dirt road and we were quickly in the midst of what seemed a banana grove or plantation. Again, I nervously wondered what was going on, but tried to reassure myself that it probably wasn't good for the tourist trade to kill the actual tourists.

Finally the main road appeared before us. When we got to the Squabbit intersection, Lee instructed the driver to let us out. She paid the man and we walked back to the hotel.

Well, just as I was beginning to lose my angst about the drive home, we have been threatened with rocks, however small the potential throwers. After a rest at the Du Jardin, we decided to return to the Ouled el Kadef quarter to wander about and take some pictures. We saw plenty more of the unmistakeable brickwork, the underside of archways made of palm wood, beautiful doors (including one painted in shade between mint green and turquoise that featured three knockers: one for the father to the left of one for the mother, beneath the latter a knocker for the children of the family; I can't imagine the knockers are still used, but I' glad they're still intact).

As we turned a corner, we came upon five kids of varying ages with tossing rocks up a high wall. One of the smaller kids, a seemigly cute fellow with closely cropped hair, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt did a strong man pose for me when he saw me pointing the camera. He flexed, I smiled and took the picture and it was a golden little travel moment.

We walked on, and one of my friends little compatriots came running up to me and asked for some money. I happily gave him the last dinar coin I had. Shortly thereafter, the little strongman came for his. I smiled and shrugged, indicating that I had nothing more to give. This was not an acceptable answer; he persisted. I grabbed my pockets and said "no more," which I'm sure doesn't mean much to an Arab speaker, much as the gesture might be universal. The kid still persisted. I laughed and we walked on. But the little charmer returned with a rock in his hand and raised his right arm in a gesture I certainly understood.

I never felt particularly threatened, though I was disappointed at how angry I quickly became as the little urchin continued to brandish a rock. At one point, I none-too-gallantly walked ahead, leaving Lee behind to deal with the kid. The worst he did was roll a rock at us as we walked away. An older woman from the neighborhood scolded the boy. For my part, I temporarily abandoned my beliefs about how children should be disciplined: I felt like smacking him. It was an ugly if harmless incident. The bad taste in my mouth was as much from my reaction as anything else.

Now, at least, we're having a better exchange with people from Tozeur. We're on the roof of a store - we've already warned the guy responsible for the carpets that we're not interested - looking north over the mottled roofline of the city.

After the cute kid photo op gone wrong, we satisfied Lee's desire to see the nearby Museum of Popular Arts and Traditions, its rather close quarters apparently on the site of the fourteenth-century tomb of Sidi Bou Aissa. The staff were as friendly as adverstised. We found ourselves first in the hands of a very polite young man who showed us around the exhibits, everything from some manuscripts - one illustrating the timetable of how water was to be distributed through the oasis, going all the way back to the thirteenth century by the famous...in case it ever comes up in your Trivial Pursuit Tunisia edition...Ibn Chabbat - to something of a bedroom in which they had numerous object from the traditional marriage ceremony.

In what I assume was another tradition, at least with foreign visitors, we were dressed in wedding finery. Lee was clad first and actually look fairly resplendant in her red and blue silk gown, green scarf and gold crown. Unfortunately, once a white robe had been put over me and a white scarf wrapped around my sizable cranium, she didn't look to be marrying well. She looked the lovely bride and I looked the stubbly, bandaged escapee from a pych ward who had taken his duvet cover and thrown it over him like a robe. I was't fooling anybody.

A woman who I assumed is the director of the museum joined us toward the end of the tour. Within the limited range of our common vocabularies, we had a brief, very plesant conversation. It was like a balm after the run-in with the kids with rocks.

I led us into the gift shop on top of which we now regard the rooftops about us. Lee didnt' find anything to her liking, but I finally found a ring for my naked hand, which I had long been seeking.

While I was looking around, a guy approached me, tapping me on the shoulder. I couldn't quite make him out, as he refused to say anything. The man who sold me the ring walked by and indicated that the other man was deaf. I then took pains to try to make sense of what the man was saying to me and speak directly at him in such a way that he might be able to read my lips. None of this was really necessary, as it turned out the odd guy is not actually deaf. He is the one responsible for selling the carpets on the second floor, though he, in his strange way, seems the least aggressive carpet seller we have encountered.

Ironically, given the fact that he initially played deaf and mute, there's no shutting up our new friend now. He's speaking a lot about Tozeur, how at home he feels here. Apparently, he did at one point set off for the capital, but apparently didn't like Tunis. He punctuates his Franglais with "par example" with a frequency reminiscent of the way some African Americans pepper conversation with "Do you know what I'm sayin?" I can't quite tell if this preference for the hometown is something heartfelt or perhaps the bravado of someone who got beaten down by the big city.

Whatever the case, the easy-going consersation has a tinge of melancholy to it as the sunset in Tozeur begins to darken the vista before us. I'm afraid the fairly charming guy could "par example" us all night. Finally, we say that it's time for us to get to dinner and we all wish each other well.

Restaurant Le Minaret is apparently staffed (and patronized) by very observant Muslims. As the call to prayer echoes from the loud speaker near the top of the tall, slender and eponymous minaret of the El Farkous Mosque, we find ourselves standing in what is supposed to be the charming patio area of the restaurant, but there's not another soul to be found. We look up at the minaret, set against the deepening azure of the desert sky, look back down and decide that we need to eat before everyone gets back from their prayers.

There's no lack of people here at the Restaurant De la Republique. The place is full of tourists and locals alike, a swarm of French students adding considerably to the buzz. Much as we spotted our first "wild" camels today, I have yet to consume any. I'm quite tempted by the Dromedaire Brochette. But really, I've had enough adventure for one day. I need something I know I'll like, and some tasty kefta does the job.

We weary travelers returned to the Hotel Du Jardin to find it even nosier than the night before. Somehow, there seem to be competing parties occuring. Or maybe it's the bar of the hotel competing with a party. Whatever the case, we're just a couple of sleep-hungry kids caught in the sonic crossfire. Actually it turns out to be a total shootout. Some sort of parades lumbers noisily up Boulevard De L'Environement and continues north. And ultimately, night falls noisily with all the final calls to prayer from area mosques. Crazy. I wanted to like Tozeur. Really I did...

BREAD FOR EVERYONE

sergei272 — Tue, 9 Feb 2010 04:26:00 GMT

Oh, sadness, sadness. It's Monday morning on the Island of Jerba. The restaurant of the otherwise charming Hotel Dar Faiza seems especially smoky this morning, last night's lugubrious congregation still asserting it's unhappiness on us. We're excited to our make way west, hopefully cross the great salt lake of the Chott el Jerid and get to Tozeur, be closer to the desert part of Tunisia. But we're not particularly excited to contemplate the long day of louage riding. Nor is one at all eager to leave this white-washed haven by the sea. One of the hotel cats looks at us from the doorway with curiousity, but no empathy.

It appears as though the Chott el Jerid is out, at least for today. In trying to put together an itinerary from my guidebook, I assumed we would catch a louage to Gabes, then another to Kebili, finally a last leg across the glittering, if largely dry lake to Tozeur. But when we said we're bound for Tozeur, we were instructed to climb into a red-striped -the efficient louage system designates local vans with a yellow stripe, vans that work within a gourvernorat with a blue stripe and those that do inter-city duty with a red stripe - van bound for Gafsa, a good portion of the way across the south central section of the country, bypassing Gabes altogether. Once again, I wish could converse in Arabic, ask if it would be possible to follow the itinerary I had in mind. But that would probably result in confusion for everyone, so Lee and I get in the back of the Gafsa louage and wait for it to fill so we can depart.

We've been lucky thus far in catching rides via the louage, but our van bound for Gafsa takes a while to fill up. As we're waiting, and I'm reading my way toward the end of The First Year After Beatrice, we get an interesting scene of Arab manhood through the windshield. There's three men involved in some sort of negotiation, two fairly burly guys with their backs to us, one with head concealed in a red and white scarf, the other in a green checia. They're facing a guy with salt a pepper hair, some of which is visible under his more traditional red checia, a bit more sprouting over his lip in an equally traditional mustache. All wear fairly heavy jackets, not burnooses, beneath their scarves.

At last, our motley ridership is in place. On the bench seat in front of us, there's a women and her young boy sitting next to an old woman, the folds of whose outer garments is matched by the wrinkles on her visage. She seems wary of the mother and son and looks pretty severe in general. In the front seat, our driver, a handsome man in his late 40's, with his short, dark hair and brown leather jacket looking very much the pilot. Next to him an odd pair: a slightly reptilian looking Italian man, very tan, perhaps in his mid to late 50's; next to him a Tunisian kid, perhaps a few decades younger, sporting a black jacket with "Player" emblazoned on its back. We have read, both fiction (we both read Patricia Highsmith's The Tremor of Forgery, set primarily in Hammamet, before embarking on the trip) and non-fiction accounts of foreign men taking Tunisian boys as lovers, much as homosexuality is officially said not to exist in the country. I wonder if our "Player" is the consort of the Italian guy in the sunglasses.

Finally, we're off, reversing Saturday's trip from Ajim to Houmt Souk. It feels great to making progress at last...until we have to stop in Ajim for the ferry and wait. And wait. We have time to get out and use the bathroom one last time before we stop who knows when later. We have time to patronize the souvenir shops positioned at the entrance to the ferry for just such intervals as these. We have time for lots of things. Oh, it's going to be a long day.

It's our turn at last to take a place on a ferry bound for the mainland. Shortly after our boat sets out, a young Guarde Nationale officer, in his crisp, green uniform starts to make the rounds. When he gets to our van, he examines the identification cards of all the Tunisians and asks for the passports of we foreigners. I expect him to take a quick look and return them, but instead he takes the reddish-brown Italian passport of the Mr. Suntan in the front seat and our blue Yankee passports and walks off. Somebody needs to play at policeman. I'm not at all thrilled about this and am increasingly nervous as time passes and our passports are not returned. Lee, for her part, seems unfazed. Finally, as we're approaching landfall at Jorf, the humorless Guarde Nationale officer nonchalantly walks over to our louage and returns our documents.

It's more than two hours getting to Gabes, although we do not stop in the city. As I struggle to find or maintain comfortable positions in the back of the louage, we proceed into the region of the country known as the Jerid. The Jerid reminds me of the desert Southwest at home. The arid landscape is largely monochrome, scrub vegetation often the only indication of life. Although as we continue west, purple wildflowers begin to dot and enliven the countryside.

I look longingly out the window to my left, in the direction of the desert proper, the Grand Erg Oriental, some 100 miles south. It seems a shame to be this close to the sand sea and not have the experience of being in its midst, but we have only so much time. In wanting to do something of a circuit around the country, but still linger long enough in a few places to feel like we've actually been there, tough decisions had to be made.

We finally stop west of Gabes at a cafe, one of a few businesses of a modest strip. At the back of a dusty dining area at the rear of the cafe, I wait for the toilet to come available.

When the locks clicks and the door opens, I see the entire female contingent of our louage appear. I'm not sure if the younger woman has been helping the older woman, or if the latter was helping the mother with her boy, but it appears that they have become much more friendly than first appeared to be the case. The toilet is a stand-up affair, the like of which Lee later tells me she saw more than once in India. There's no toilet as we know it, just a square, canted ceramic base in the floor with a relatively small hole in the middle. There's a small tap on the left side of the stall with a bucket. I'm glad that my needs require nothing more than what I can usually do standing up. In retrospect, the two woman who preceeded me have my sympathy.

Before we depart, Lee and I examine the offerings in the restaurant's refrigerated case near the front. As we hesitate between what choices we might make and the words to use to describe what we want, our friend from the louage, the "Player" intervenes and communicates with the guy behind the case on our behalf. His warm, cackling laughter has been growing on me as I occasionally observe the goings on in the front seat. I don't know if he is in some way working with the driver, but I'm kind of touched that he's looking out for us. I decide on a piece of cake and an orange Fanta; Lee, as is her wont, decides on healthier fare.

At some further point in the infinite, arid distance between Gabes and Gafsa, we slow down and stop at another small strip of nondescript buildings, something between homes and businesses. Our driver gets out and begins a conversation with a gentleman before a kind of garage space. Some green beans or peas are eventually brought out and weighed on a crude scale, the chains and "bowls" of which kind of fascinate me.

When the driver comes back to the louage, the old woman in front of us gets his attention. She wants some as well. She digs into the folds of her outer garments, produces some money and gives it to the driver. While the second purchase is taking place, the Player, who had previously gotten out and joined the parley, comes back to the van with a handful of the peas and passes them around. Like the buildings before us, the peas are more functional than appealing, at least in the state in which presented to us. But it's a nice gesture to share with everyone, and I'm in airplane passenger mode, in which I will eat any edible item put before me, lest I never find sustenance again. For once, I attack a vegetable with more vigor than Lee, who's clearly seen and tasted better peas in her life.

It's not yet 2:30 in the afternoon, but it feels like we've been crossing Tunisia for a couple of days. The mood is pretty sleepy in the louage. I struggle to change the position of my legs in the limited space. Right. Knee. Very. Stiff.

And for the love of God, we're stopping again. Once again, our driver trots across the road. But this time, I don't know what he's doing. There's a building removed some distance from the roadside, but he's crouched before a cardboard box placed fairly near the asphalt. He opens the flaps of the box and pulls out...some bread. Now he's getting some bread. At this point in the day, I wish he would take care of his shopping after dropping us in Gafsa. I would like to get to Tozeur before nightfall. He takes some money out of his pocket and places it in the same box. As he's about ready to cross the road back to us, a man walks out of the building. He speaks, gets the drivers attention. The two exchange friendly waves and our man trots back to the louage.

And don't I feel like a heel. The bread is for us. He's purchases one large, still-warm piece of bread for each row of the vehicle. Ours is passed back to us with a smile from the old woman in front of us. Lee and I both take turns greedily with our piece. Actually, it's quite large and we're surprised that it's all for us. It's funny how your notions of luxury can change. The bread has a fairly tough crust, but is thick and crumbly on the inside, somewhat like cornbread.

A little more food in my belly, I reflect on the transaction I just witnessed. And I'm charmed by how it bespeaks informality, local knowledge and implicit trust.

I may never walk properly again, and I am still fairly desperate to be at our hotel in Tozeur, but I'm grateful for this experience. I now feel a strange bond with these people of whose existence I was unaware this morning. It's not an experience we could have had driving around the country by ourselves or as part of a tour.

Finally, we're pulling into Gafsa. As I look about me, I see nothing more appealing than the fact that it is a destination reached. Before we get to the louage station, we stop on a street corner in the town center. The Italian and his young friend get out, the latter smiling back to us and giving a wave goodbye. Godspeed Player.

I'm half-asleep as we ply the open, winding road from Gafsa down to Tozeur. Upon our arrival at Gafsa, we were ushered to another red-striped van which departed in short order. Other than my lovely traveling companion, it feels strange to be riding with another group of people.

It's been a mercifully quick-passing, sleepy hour or so from Gafsa. As we reach an intersection I see another of the Squabbits, perched atop a brick column in front of a fountain, making it appear even more giant than is normally the case. Did I mention that the Squabbit sports a kind of powder blue one-piece suit with an emblem on its chest? Or that it has a grey purse suspended jauntily from it's right shoulder? Or that it's otherwise all gold of floppy foot, hands, face and those big, propeller ears? Well, all are strangely the case.

Once we're by the Squabbit, we have only a short ride down Avenue Farhat Hached, before we make a right turn, and pull into a dusty lot circumvallated by corruagated metal fence,across from the bus station. I think we could walk to our hotel in a reasonable time, but once we go back to Farhat Hached and cross the street, we're all too happy to take an eager taxi driver up on his offer to cart us the short distance to our home for the next couple of nights.

As we go back up the street, we can see the distinctive yellowish brick of Tozeur evident in many of the facades of buildings lining Farhat Hached. Just before we get back to our old friend, the Squabbit, my eye is caught by a cafe on the opposite side of the street. A great swell of motorbikes fronts the large cafe whose tables sprawl left and right beyond its doors, most of the men assembled in the shade provided by three very dusty green and white awnings. The temperature seems the same comfortale 60 or so to which we've happily grown accumstomed, but one does feel a little closer to the desert here.

And here we are at the Hotel Du Jardin. Well, the hotel is back there somewhere. We have to step over a slightly raised threshold to pass through the door in the wooden fence. Obscuring the hotel is, presumably, all that jardin. Although it's really like a big, wild yard, distinguished mainly by parallel rows of palm trees extending back to the hotel building. Even obscured as it is by the palms and other vegetation, the building looks to be quite a mishmash. A bit of balustrade along the roof line, some lovely, richly-patterned green tile at the upper left, big, arching, darkly-glassed window running along the front of the second floor.

Once we haul our bags and weary selves up a couple of flights of stairs, we find a reception and lobby area that presents more of a unified, if somewhat antiquated elegance. Spacious, plenty of dark-toned wood and wrought iron railings at the reception desk and lounge to our right. The gentleman checking us in looks like something out of an El Greco with his tall, lean figure, the angularity of his faced traced by a thin beard along his jawline.

We go up another flight of stairs and across roof patio to get to our room. My guidebook describes the rooms as "plesant and tasteful, with yellow, pink or blue decor." Of course, one person's plesant and tasteful is another persons pink, floral nightmare. It seems comfortable enough, really. The lack of towels and toilet paper is more troubling, but we're assuming that was just a housekeeping oversight.

Now that we have freshened ourselves up after the trip from Jerba - as is often the case with such long, full days, our departure seems like it happened yesterday - we decide to quit our fabulous room and take advantage of what remains of daylight in Tozeur.

As we're walking out, I mention to the lanky gentleman at the desk in my feeble French that we lack toilet paper and towels. I realize this is the same man who took my reservation over the phone from Chicago. The same, deeply-inflected and brief responses in the affirmative. The same ability to comprehend my French without difficulty, putting him well ahead of most of his countrymen in that regard. I like him.

Both Lee and I are excited to check out the Ouled el Hadef, the fourteenth-century quarter that's supposed to feature a lot of distinctive architecture and brickwork. Unfortunately, we can't seem to find it. Using what I thought to be the minaret of the Sidi Abdessalem Mosque for a beacon - of course, in a Muslim city, this is tantamount to trying to locate yourself by the the position of a particular cloud in the sky - we had wandered in off the main street. But if this is the much-heralded Ouled el Hadef quarter, I don't believe the hype. As I consult my map again, it appears as though I mistook the minaret of Sidi Abdessalem for that of the Sidi Abid Lakhdhar Mosque - a classic mistake, really.

While I can't quite put my finger on it, this particular part of Tozeur feels a bit dicy to me. When we explore a short cul-de-sac and are admonished by the wagging finger of an older woman in a black robe, we retrace our steps and exit the area in the direction of Avenue Bourguiga.

We quickly dub Borguiba "Arabia Street," as it seems an early-21st version of the bazaar or Arab desert outpost. The relatively short street is thick with vehicle traffic. Even early in the evening, the bulging shops are all open. There's a great prevalence of rug sellers, one tan building has them hanging from all three storeys of it side wall, a couple of rugs even draped over the rooftop railings. As usual, we disappoint the merchants, avail ourself of one of the hallmarks of the 21st-century bazaar, the ATM machine, and move on.

It's not a very long walk, essentially south (although I'm having a hard time maintaining my direction in the city that slants along the nearby Chott el Jerid) to Tozeur's vast oasis. Finally, unceremoniously, we find ourselves in it, or so we think. There are, apparently, some 200,000 palms in the oasis. Those we see, but any indication of sights or direction we do not. For a short time, we walk the sandy paths along irriation ditches, but neither of us is enthused about wandering deeply into the palmerie tired, with night falling.

We return back out to Avenue Abou el Kacem Chabbi (supposedly Tunisia's greatest poet and a Tozeur native), skirt the alluringly-bizarre-sounding Chak-Wak theme park - another day, hopefully - and find ourselves in the sought after Ouled el Hadef quarter. As I suspected, there's no mistaking the area once you're in it. We see the distinctive flat, rectangular, yellow bricks everywhere, always extending out from the line of the recessed mortar. The setback of brick and mortar is often used to create elaborate patterns on walls which otherwise tell no secrets at all.

It's mesmerizing, but it's also late. Lee has started to feel weak by this time, so we leave the quarter in favor of nearby Avenue Borguiba. Lee bolsters herself with some orange juice and a bit of bread at a busy, modernish (high stainless steel tables with metal stools) cafe and then we set off back to the hotel.

Somehow, the decor of our room at the Du Jardin seems even more floral, even more pink than I remembered. But happily, we have been stocked with both toilet paper and towels. We're laying about for a while before dinner, open bags breathing on the day bed opposite our bed. I finish The First Year After Beatrice, but am less than satisfied with its conclusion.

Given our level of ambition early this evening, dinner at the hotel's restaurant is really the only option for us. When we sit in the sizeable restaurant, near the the large window that runs along the garden-facing side of the room, we're the only diners.

We're surprised to be waited on by an attractive, 30ish Tunisian woman dressed in a very western manner. She's in jeans and a tight, white Dolce and Gabbana t-shirt. It's strange to see a Tunisian woman's bare arms. She politely hands us our menus, but doesn't seem particularly enthused to be here.

I fare much better with my pasta dish than does Lee. As I'm eating mine pretty robustly and she's picking at hers - in theory, carbonara, but her poor spagetti is losing a battle against a pool of heavy cream, helped not at all by the somewhat inexplicable inclusion of chopped bits of hard boiled egg - disappointedly, we eavesdrop on a conversation at an adjacent table. Shortly after we were served, an older American man came in with two Tunisian guys who look to be in their late-20's. Our countryman mentions more than once a Marie who's not feeling well and won't be joining them for dinner. It appears that the Tunisian guys are employed as tour guides, whether just with the one couple or with a larger group I can't surmise. What does seem pretty clear is that the two Tunisians have already grown weary of their American charge.

The man, fairly pasty and overweight, awash in a light blue (an outfit not terribly unlike the Squabbit, sans shoulder bag; although the Squabbit wears his clothes to better effect), is holding forth on the quality of the meals on the trip. I can see the Tunisian guys struggle to keep their eyes from rolling. I'm no more fascinated with the gastronomic review than them, but when the subject comes round to Algeria and one of the Tunisians starts to speak, my attention refocuses.

Contrary to the common wisdom on travel in Algeria - don't do it - the Tunisian says that it can be done with common sense. As the discussion expands on other noted hot spots through North Africa and the Middle East, I'm impressed by how articulate the man is in English and his wide-ranging knowledge. He seems neither pedantic nor particularly militant with any of the points he makes, while he lifts his right arm from the table cloth for emphasis.

When we left the dining room, only the three gentlemen shared the room with us. But it sounds like a raucous wedding party has taken control of the restaurant. So it sounds from our pink chamber. We were very ready for a restful night's sleep, but the room and building about us seems to be positively pulsating.

At first, we became aware of a procession of some sort (Another holiday? Or the same holiday which prompted all that car honking in Sfax? Or is every town just thrilled to have us?!!) on the street beyond the considerable stretch of the hotel's front garden. But for some time now, what sounds like a happy and well-attended wedding has been raging. Apparently right below our room. Or maybe in it. I'm inclined to say it's just happening in my disbelieving head, but Lee is more than aware of the din as well.

I actually went outside to the terrace once to try to determine just what is happening, and where. I couldn't tell. But the noise is impressive. It's like some great bash is happening off-site somewhere and the sound is being piped into our very walls and amplified. It should be an interesting evening.

YOU'LL NEVER CATCH A TAXI IN THIS TOWN AGAIN

sergei272 — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 05:52:00 GMT

Once again, we seem to be early to breakfast. We're here, eager and hungry travelers that we are, last night's pasta and panna cottta just a happy memory. There'e the two cats - one of whom poked his cute head in our doorway soon after our arrival at the Dar Faiza - who seem to have their run of this room and most of the establishement. Whether they're fighting or disporting, I can't tell. And that seems to be the extent of life in the hotel's large and airy restaurant. We are ready for breakfast. Any time about nowish would be good....

And of course, breakfast comes, as it always magically does for two such bums traipsing around a country without a damned bit of work to do. The life-giving bread and its accompanying spreads, the dark liquid infusion of caffeine. All is well. The gentleman who's in a room around the corner from us - I met him sitting on a deck chair during my initial reconnaissance of the hotel's roof, has arrived as well. That might be it for guests right now at the lovely Dar Faiza. The cats come and go, again. And so do we.

It's easy like Sunday morning in Houmt Souk. Fresh air, blue skies and a quiet village center. Very few creatures are stirring as yet, even the vendors of all that colorful pottery. But there is a queue of taxis, and we hire one to drive us out to Hara Sghira, the other of Jerba's two Jewish settlements. Apparently Hara Sghira means "small town" to Hara Kebira's "big town." Relative terms, given that the big town has a population of about 1,000. It's not so much the small town we're going to see as its famous El Ghriba synagogue.

Despite the putative civility between Jerba's Jewish and Muslim communitites, the El Ghriba synagogue has seen its share of troubles. The worst incident occurred in 2002, when some lost soul in the name of Islamic extremism blew up a propane tanker in the vicinity of the synagogue. Ironically, aside from taking his own life, he succeeded in killing 20 others, none Jewish. Eighteen French and German tourists perished, along with two Tunisian Muslims.

We're dropped in the middle of Hara Sghira, such as it is. Just a strip of businesses along a curving blacktop lane. We walk the short distance down the road to the entrance of the synagogue, where we face the most rigorous secrurity we've seen during the trip. We're guided into a compact, white out building where we are made to walk through a metal detector and run our bags through an x-ray machine. Fortunately, we read enough to know that we would be asked for our passports as well, which happens with the other security procedures.

Having been approved for entry, we exit the building and walk very politely by a couple of conspicuously well-armed police officers at the head of the drive to the synagogue and attached buildings.

El Ghriba certainly lives up to the billing. It's exquisite. It also lives up to the translation of the Arabic name, which means "the marvelous," or "the strange." I've only seen a few synagogues before, but El Ghriba seems particularly unique in its profusion of colors and decorative styles. The Tunisian blue is incorporated into the interior posts, trim, and most prominently, in the blue and white striping of the moorish arches. The rich tilework, which changes in pattern and color from the main floor to the second, seems quite Tunisian. As if an inverted landscape, the blue of lower reaches gives way to various shades of green above, culminating in the deep green of the ceiling, in the middle of which is a round fixutre, made to look like a sun with it's outer ring of flame-like points, although a very polychromatic sun to put it lightly. Wow.

One of the synagogues main draws for pilgrimmage, beyond it's age - the present building dates to the 19th century, but the synagogue is said to go back perhaps 2000 years, making it the oldest in Africa - and beauty, is that is currently houses the world's oldest Sefer Torah, a special handwritten copy of the Torah. I wonder if this is what is being discussed toward the back the smaller room of the synagogue, where a tour group is gathered. The group's tranlator is forwarding questions to someone who represents the synagogue. But sucessive answers and responses relayed by the translator back to the group result in one woman saying rather sharply "that's the wrong question!" What the right question is, we do not find out.

Across the a narrow strip of asphalt from the main sanctuary is a building housing offices and a school. One of our heavily armed friends informed us that there are toilets at the back of this building. We certainly weren't going to wander around with the same sort of abandon that might normally demonstrate elsewhere.

In the starkest of contrasts to the exquisite sanctuary we have just quitted, I have just emerged from (reminded as I am by that disgusting scene in Trainspotting) from THE DIRTIEST LOO IN TUNISIA. I'm not kidding. Let us speak of this no more.

There's a modest Sunday market in progress, winding through the strip of Hara Seghira. The narrow street is crowded with people and vendors. Large Tunisian flags fly from many of the bigger stalls; strings of small flags are stretched across the road; as Lee had previously remarked, "it's a very flaggy country." Among the Arab and Jewish constituents, I notice what is something of a rare sight in Tunisia, a black African. It's obviously not a market for tourists, as all the daily and basic necessitites on sale indicate. Lee purchases a pack of tissue, which a particular vendor is kind enough to separate from a large, more wholesale bundle, as well as five dates, just five, from a somewhat confused man in another stall. But that's all we need....

Since Lee is a fan of museums small and strange, we have decided to include Guellala and its Heritage Museum on our limited tour of Jerba. We catch a taxi easily enough outside the market and enjoy the 10-minute ride down to the south coast of the island.

Guellala is supposed to be the Jerban bastion of both the Berber language as well as Ibadism, the latter being a particularly strict form of Islam. But we have a chance to observe neither, as our taxi makes a left turn before we get to the town and heads up a hill on a well-manicured road to the museum. It's certainly a grander looking place than we had imagined.

As we're paying our fare, our driver, across the murky gulf of our mutual French - the coast on our side being particularly rocky and strewn with verbal shipwrecks - makes it known to us that he's willing to wait while we visit the museum and then take us wither we will go. All of this for a price, of course. I don't really care for the price, and I feel we can probably catch a taxi, even in the more remote areas of this heavily-touristed isle. So, I smile and shake my head. Non, merci. Undeterred, he reapeats his offer with stronger emphasis. Again I smile and shake my head. Non, merci. Now he's angry. I don't think he's quite cursing us, but as we get out of the car, I do understand a few words: "Dimanche...taxi...IM-possible!" Like the Jules Dassin movie, Never on Sunday we are made to understand. He shakes his head and drives off in a huff. We might end up hitchhiking later, but I'm happy to send the asshole on his way.

What the Guellala Hertiage Museum lacks in small, it more than compensates for in strange. All of this in an expansive, palatial setting, all the white-washed surfaces here set off by green doors and frames.

Most of the museum consists of tableaux starring crazed-looking mannequins. Numerous first rooms are given over to Jerban marriage rites. We're rather agape and amused at it all, most notably a scene depicting hair removal, although the poor orange-faced, clearly pained bride-to-be seems seated in a position conducive to giving birth, propped back on her hands with legs spread wide. The woman at her feet, like all of her supposedly lifeless cohorts, seems to be enjoying her work entirely too much.

Lest the boys get off lightly, there are actually two tableaux devoted to circumcision, the most leg-crossing of which features an elegantly dressed man leaning over with a pair of rusty shears.

It seems as if we have found the Jerban Disneyland. Are half of the tourists on Jerba here right now? The strange place is packed, especially the marriage section, thick with French tourists, a few of whom seem to find my exixtence quite vexing when I am demanding enough to desire occasional movement. Damned French.

The wedding and cicumcision tableaux - I wonder at one point if Lee's friend Raja is witnessing any such strange rituals - give way to a series of displays of wedding dresses from all over the country. It's all rather fascinating, a fireworks display of fabric, pattern and color, but eventually it's like a rich dessert of which one has partaken excessively. Too. Many. Wedding. Dresses.

But wait, there's more. Out a door and on the opposite side of the semi-circle at which we began, we walk into the museum's courtyard and come to the "Museum of the Sea." The "museum" is kind of a small, nautically-themed grotto. But of course.

In addition to all of these delights, there is also somewhat inexplicably a live camel tethered in the courtyard. We try to comprehend all that we have seen, while enjoying the fine early afternoon, drinking mint tea at a courtyard table.

It's something less than a half mile down the hill into sleepy Guellala. The tea did little to take the edge off our hunger, so we roam the main street to examine the limited possiblilities for lunch. At about the two minute mark of our expedition, we have reached the end of Guellalan civilization. So we circle back and decide to try a sandwich shop we spotted on a side street.

The sandwich seems to be a good fallback, if not a first choice for meals in Tunisia. These people know how to make bread, sandwiches and pizza. It's a couple of the latter that we're enjoying very much, sitting on stools at a table against a side wall of the limited dining area, adjacent to another tourist couple. I'm impressed with the guy who I assume is the proprietor. He's very friendly and checked with us after our pizzas were delivered to make sure all is well. The only moment of uncertainty in his spick and span restaurant is the result of some young men showing up in uniforms, bandanas around their necks, some wielding some dangerous looking sticks. But we realize that this is some sort of scout troup, not a group of bandits.

We walk back to the main street and are able to catch a taxi in about two seconds. HA! I say.

The problem with all the beautiful mosques in this Muslim country is that the interiors remain a mystery to we non-Muslims. That being the case, we're excited to visit the disused Fadloune Mosque, necessitating a short trip to the northeast corner of the island, toward Midoun, before we finally head back to the Dar Faiza.

I was expecting an interesting ruin, the like of which Lee and I so enjoy. But while it is no longer used for prayers, the Fadloune Mosque seems almost pristine, an extremely well-maintained museum. It's a testament to how elegant a building can be even when expressed in such basic archtitectural language, absent of color and decoration. The mosque is (predictably) a whitewashed affair, generally low-slung, its facade marked by the convex curve of it's archways and the series of rooftop koubbas of varying sizes. Only a building back of the main body of the mosque, sort of a keep to the mosque's castle, is more vertical, it's tall walls buttressed, a narrow lantern minaret poking above the white horizon of the wall tops.

As pleased with myself as I clearly was a getting a taxi back in Guellala, I'm beginning to regret our particular driver. When he got out of the car with us, I assumed our man would just have a smoke, relax, whatever, while we took a brief tour of the mosque. Instead, he has decided to be our tour guide and won't leave us the hell alone. We're both taken with this place, but we end up cutting our tour short just to shut him up.

While Lee is taking a bathroom break before our departure, our new friend asks if we're married. I smile and say no. He then asks, in his limited English if I "visit" her. I know what he's getting at, but how exactly does one answer this question posed by a total stranger who shouldn't have asked it in the first place? Afraid that any of the sarcastic answers the question deserves will only further encourage him, I just laugh politely, the mildest affirmative I can offer. Lee also later tells me that our eager guide got a bit handsy when guiding her through one of the interior doorways. Charming.

So, by all means, visit the Fadloune Mosque. Just make sure your driver stays in the car.

The presumptuous driver not withstanding, it's been a lovely day roaming around Jerba. I wish it were warm enough to take a swim, but instead we have an exceedingly pleasant siesta back at the Dar Faiza. It's the very essence of what you hope for on a vacation: the sunshine that we have temporarily banished is all too ready to poor back through the now-shuttered windows, the crash of surf can be heard when one is quite still, we're in a place where we're completely at ease and time is something of which we are conscious in the most carefree way.

Before dinner, we use some of the remaining daylight to walk across the street and take a look at the Borj el Kebir. The fort almost seems too pretty, given all that has transpired here. It is good to get close enough to see the many gradations in color in the generally sandy stone, the patchwork of varying textures, which gives some indication of the accumulation of centuries. The water of the Gulf of Gabes is green in the shallows just a stone's throw from the fort; out to the fairly calm sea the water looks as infinite and blue as expected.

So, we meander around the fort, if nothing else to satisfy ourselves that we have missed nothing on the side opposite from our hotel. Before going back to our room to ready ourselves for dinner, we stop at a small store, more of a stand really, a short distance from the entrance to the hotel on Avenue de la Republique. Only from the vantage point across the street did we first notice the business. A shame, since we are able to easily procure a needed tube of toothpaste. This after a stop in Houmt Souk yesterday that saw us inquiring in a pharmacy for the same item.

Neither of us had any idea how to say toothpaste en Francais, so Lee finally said "toothpaste" while pantomiming the brushing of her teeth. At that the person helping us presented us with a small box containing, we could only assume, toothpaste. It seemed expensive, almost ten dinars, but perhaps toothpaste is expensive in Tunisia we thought. Only later, when it came time to break into our new tube of toothpaste did we find out that Lee's pantomime resulted in our being sold a tube of anti-fungal oinment for the gums. The strange look of the gentleman at the pharmacy counter began to make sense....

It would have been easy enough to once again follow the curve or Rue Dargouth Pacha - and who wouldn't want to frequent such an intriguingly-named road - which the Dar Faiza property abuts, right to the cozy Il Papagallo for another satisfying meal, but we've made it all the way into Houmt Souk this evening. We've come to Les Palmiers, just north of the covered souks of the Qaysarriya in the village center.

Our guidebooks have again served us well. We're thoroughly enjoying our dinner, kefta on my side of the table and some Berber stew on Lee's. She's taken not only with the stew, but with the vessel in which it's served. The simple, maroon pot is just the sort of things she's looking for, she says. But as with the irony of rarely seeing couscous on the menu - apparently it is often ordered a day in advance - in a country famous for the dish, she's been unable to find such a vessel on an island where pottery seems to burst out of the ground whole and pre-painted.

We were greeted and initially served by a very amiable gentleman who we assume to be the proprietor of Les Palmiers. While it was immediately determined that we were all delighted to meet each other, despite the bonhomie that prevailed upon the delivery of our menus, it quickly became obvious that the good man couldn't understand a word we were saying. He was quite self-effacing about it, apologizing at his lack of French. In his stead, he sent over Sufjan.

Over the course of our meal, we have the sort of conversation with Sufjan that you long for when traveling in a foreign country, a warm, open exchange with a local. Although Sufjan isn't completely local. He's actually from the north. We don't know what has brought him to Jerba, nor why he's currently working in the restaurant. Like so many people waiting tables in the world, his vocation lies elsewhere. His somewhat bookish appearance is borne by the the fact that he's a linguist, his studies having taken him as far afield as Greece.

In addition to some of the particulars of his life, we talk about our two countries. He feels the need to assert, or assure us that Tunisians who have done mischief - and we are actually unaware of any Tunisians involvement in acts of terrorism - have done so away from the good influence of their home country. We, in turn, assure him that all the good advanced word to which we had been subject about the friendliness and decency of the Tunisian people has been affirmed by our direct experience. We also commiserate with lamentations of our countrymen, their embarrassing behavior home and especially abroad.

We also share his disdain for the zone touristique approach to traveling. Sufjan is actually rather amusing as he dwells on the penchant of those visitors who hardly ever leave the safety of their hotel worlds for Mariah Carey and chicken. It might not be at all accurate or fair, but it's funny.

But as it happens, I think we might have a couple of visitors from the zone touristique at the next table. It is an American couple, that much I have been able to ascertain from their brief exchanges with another waiter. They've been very quiet throughout the meal. I'm particularly fascinated with the unassuming man who's sitting opposite (I assume) his wife. He's been sipping coke throughout them meal. I can't help thinking that I used to be that guy in some way.

Well, I still am that guy, in that I consume gallons of the diet version of the same beverage and am thrilled to find it where I can when abroad. But I get the feeling that these two, however uncomfortable they might be, are trying to step beyond their normal experience and the amenities of their high-rise hotel (although for all I know, they're staying at one of Houmt Souks famous fondouk hotels, on the site of centuries-old caravansereis; we were, quite happily as it turned out, unable to book one).

And really, we're just trying to do the same. God knows I am daily and constantly banging into my ignorance with regard to French, much less my sad and total ignorance of Arabic. And I don't know much about Tunisia at this point, but that's kind of the point of all this wandering, the really exciting thing about it. But I'm grateful to be far enough along the continuum of life experience that the good food before me and and the nice man talking to us speak to something in me.

I hope the quiet couple that have now left will have a good trip, with experiences they find worthy of stories repeatedly told, between themselves, if no one else. I hope our warm but slightly melancholy friend Sufjan finds more fulfillment that he seems currently to possess. As for us, we'll continue with the ridiculous luxury of our lives. Over to a nearby shop for some patisserie before heading back to the Dar Faiza. Through the sad, smoky gamut of men at the hotel bar. Back to our beloved room, above the strange din of meowing cats, complaining of lust or antagonism for each other, I can't tell. I'm hard pressed to come up with a subject worthy of melancholy, sadness or a loud, distorted meow on my part. Well, just the thought of leaving.

IN WHICH WE STRUGGLE WITH THE MEANING OF FISH AND SHRIMP ALIKE

sergei272 — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 07:50:00 GMT

Well, perhaps we'll try again at 7:00. It's 6:30 and all is dark inside the restaurant of the Colisee. After yesterday's misadventures, I'm especially anxious to get going and be at the bus station for what I hope will the the 8:00 departure of a coach for points south. But I know Lee does not want to face the day without her morning coffee, and I don't really fancy starting the long journey on an empty stomach myself.

At least the room is now open. It's about 7:00 now. We find one table that is set and hope that service will soon arrive. The room has itself has the feeling of being hung over: there is redolence of too much smoke and drink; bleary attempts at tidying up have proven less than convincing. It doesn't seem happy to face the day. As if sensing this, we keep our voices low as we discuss the prospects of getting our meal.

We're somewhat pleasantly surprised when our sleepy waiter does appear. After coffee, there is fresh bread as well. I'm not sure who was laboring at some obscenely early hour this morning to produce the blessed loafs, but they have my love. Caffeinated and reasonably well-fed, we're more ready to face the day than the room we're quitting.

Why is that man tapping the glass? Does he not want us to sit down? Isn't that what this bench is for? We're in the SNTRI station, the national bus line. It looks like something between a standard American bus station and what I imagine the inside of a large mosque to look like. There's lots of space, a large area behind the glass where our tap-happy friend stands with another ticket agent and it all seems quite clean and spare, a feeling heightened by plentiful amounts of white, gleaming marble on the floor and walls.

Apparently he wants to make sure that we don't miss our bus. We were quite relieved upon arriving via taxi to find out that there is an 8:00 bus as my schedule indicated. It's not supposed to leave for 25 minutes yet, but perhaps we have the look of hapless tourists who will screw up our own plans if given half a chance. I'd love to argue with the man, but....We dutifully pick up our bags and move out the door toward which we're directed.

It's a sparsely populated coach. I'm surprised to be on public transportation in Tunisia and have so much space to myself. Although space is a relative thing. We're actually scrunched in a middle row of the bus. We were in a more capacious row toward the back, but Lee noticed soon after our departure that there was a pronounced shimmy at the rear of the vehicle. So, I followed her up several rows to a place that would be perfectly comfortable if not for these damned inconvenient legs of mine. Having finished with Hemmingway at the Colisee, I start a novel by Amin Malouf, The First Year After Beatrice, and try to forget the minor discomfort.

Actually, it's easy enough to forget the lack of leg space, beyond the novelty of the new book. I feel somehow assured by the formality of the coach and uniformed driver. I'm even more assured to know that we're heading in right direction and won't need to change vehicles before we get to Djerba island. It's a generally younger crowd on the bus this Saturday morning. There are three 20-something kids to our left, two giggly, prodding girls frequently challenging the surly machismo of their male counterpart. An attractive young woman toward the front, dressed in a jean jacket over a colorful sweater smiles back to me while she's briefly standing up and happens to look back. As for the situation outside the bus, I'm really coming to expect these perfect days, the morning's already plentiful light illuminating the increasingly arid landscape as we speed south.

The uniformed driver who I earlier found assuring is less so once we get on a main road. He handles the bus like he's driving a compact car, making sharp turns, passing up hills and tailgating before doing so. I wonder if there's something Arab in this manner of driving. Just as apparently Arabs like or even need closeness and jostling when walking about in urban environments, does it apply to driving as well? Everyone seems to drive this way, pulling up to the very back of a vehicle ahead before making a pass when the opportunity presents itself. It's the sort of thing that would draw angry blaring of horns, obscene gestures or even gunfire in America. Here, nary a honk. Interesting.

We made a pit stop some miles back, about an hour into our drive. We had the chance to relieve ourselves and get a snack at a roadside cafe. As I look at Lee enjoying her tasty stuffed bread, I'm wishing that I had one as well.

Not far north of Gabes I begin to notice makeshift trestle tables set up along the right side of the road. I see groupings of these tables periodically, piled with plastic containers of various sizes. Is it water they're selling? I assume so, but the often discolored containers would not seem to make any water contained therein very appealing.

About two and a half hours into our journey, our bus is making it's way through the relative sprawl of Gabes. It's not supposed to be a very interesting city, and little from from my vantage point seems to argue against that appraisal. We wait for nearly a half hour in the crowded lot of the station on the western side of Gabes, gathering point for both louages and buses. We get off the bus but don't stray far away in the dusty lot. It's not even eleven yet, but I'm ready to be on Djerba. In the immortal words of restive young hostages to road trips everywhere, are we there yet?

The bus left the station at Gabes with a few more people than it carried into town. Now it's more than full as we head east toward the coast and Djerba. I was surprised to see us stop a couple of times at seemingly unmarked spots at intersections with side roads. The second such stop brought us many more riders. Our driver had to come back and help negotiate bodies into rows and seats.

I was somewhat incensed to see the kid to our left smile and feign sleep to avoid having to share the seat to side. Fortunately, the driver persisted and roused him from his pretend sleep, ushering a rather large woman into the seat next to him. He was more than a little chagrined. I tried to contain my pleasure at his discomfiture, but his young female companions made no such attempt at hiding their amusement. Ah, little moments of justice.

The girls traveling with our surly friend further endeared themselves to Lee and me by helping one of our more recently-arrived passengers with her restless child. The mother of the boy was actually quite upset when she saw how crowded was the bus. She returned to the front of the vehicle and proceeded to loudly give the driver a piece of her mind. But there was not much to be done. Her three or four-year-old boy was going to be forced to sit on her lap.

Well, we could all see how that was going to go, and the boy's pain was probably going to be shared with us all. One of the girls then volunteered to take the boy. The offer was made in such an open and friendly manner that the grateful mother accepted quite readily. The two girls then proceeded to babysit after a fashion, charming and mollifying the boy into forgetting his troubles. We were both impressed and grateful.

I wondered how often in their future lives these young women would have to laugh off the stupid machismo of men in their lives or play diplomat with aggrieved children. Godspeed, ladies.

As it happens, the name of the young woman toward the front of the coach, she of the nice smile, jean jacket and colorfully-striped sweater, is Raja. I know this because I'm looking at Lee and Raja converse atop the ferry crossing the narrow strait between Jorf on the mainland and Ajim on the Djerba, much as it sounds like a relay between minor Star Wars characters.

When the bus alit at Ajim, we all eventually disembarked, waiting for our our turn on the ferry. The queue of cars for the crossing was rather distressing, but our bus was allowed to pull into a much shorter line. Before long our coach and it's dispersed passengers were on the way, leaving the barren cliffs of Ajim behind.

Raja had quickly struck up a conversation with Lee shortly after we got off the bus and stood near she and her mother. Emboldened by how the exchange transpired for the few minutes while we were waiting for the ferry, Raja grasped Lee's hand once we were on the ferry and led her to the top deck so they could speak in earnest. It was a sweet gesture to observe.

So I have been keeping my distance, letting the conversation take place freely, commemorating the occasion with a few photos. It's cool on the top deck, catching what wind as we are across the narrow strait, Gulf of Gabes to our left, Gulf of Bou Grara on our right.

Finally, I'm invited to join the conversation. I'm introduced to Raja, who's English is more than serviceable. As ever, I contrast this to my Arabic, which is less than existent. She's from the Kerkennah Island, off Sfax. She and her mother are going to Djerba for a wedding.

Before long, we're docking at Ajim. We all scurry back along the narrow walkway and down the stairway to the floor of the ferry. We take our seats and without much delay, our coach is making it's way through the modest settlement of Ajim.

As we head north across the island toward Houmt Souk, I look out across the arid landscape of the island. Apparently, the island is made up largely of family farms. I can see the occasional white, domed, fortress-like home, each called a houch, presiding over its parcel of land, called a menzel. Given the upheavals and invasions the island has seen over time, the fact that each home looks like its own little blockish fort is no accident.

The drive to Houmt Souk passes quickly. When it comes time to disembark, we say goodbye to Raja and her mother, who positively oozes goodwill. Raja encourages Lee to e-mail her or even call her while she's on the island.

Allah be praised, we have a room for the next couple of nights. We were unable to get through to the hotel yesterday when our plans changed. But with a not-terribly-stern look, the gentleman at the desk of the Hotel Dar Faiza informs us that our reservation can be honored for the next couple of nights. A glance at the abundance of keys on the board behind the desk indicates we had little to worry about.

The concept of the hotel or motel room is a funny thing. Perhaps from changing residences so often, I really tend to regard any place where I lay my large head, even for a night or two, with the reverence of a home. Of course, some places draw you in more quickly and deeply than others. Not ten minutes into my residency at the Hotel Dar Faiza, I can say beyond any reasonable allowance, I love this place.

Like Sidi Bou Said, the hotel is a veritable architectural study in white and Tunisian blue. The flat, white-washed structure highlighted with railings, shutters and doors of the omnipresent blue. Our room is up a staircase on the second floor, allowing access to the roof of the building where we can roam freely. Look out our door and you see, in the continuing counterpoint of blue and white, a dramatic marabout-like structure against the blue (is it ever any other color?) sky, complete with a dome at its top. This one seems purely decorative and is certainly doing its job.

Our room is all simple elegance. The blue from outside is picked up in our curtains and bedspreads, each with simple, white, geometrical designs. The only break in the pattern is in the transition to a deeper, more navy blue of our prim, separate bed frames, simple bedside tables, chairs and the small desk adjacent to the bathroom. As with Tunis' exquisite suburb, the simple color pattern seems perfectly suited to a sunny, seaside dwelling.

Yes, I do love this place, much as the low threshold to the bathroom seems likely to render me unconscious at some point during our stay at the Dar Faiza.

We're across the street from the Borj el Kebir, a plain enough looking fort for all the excitement and bloodshed its seen over the centuries. In 1560, Phillip II's armada was destroyed off the coast. They retreated to the fort only to be massacred by the Turks. Very bad winners, the Turks piled their skulls, hundreds, perhaps thousands, into a great tower just up the beach. The skulls were finally moved to a more respectful spot beneath the ground in 1848. These days, the handsomely weatherbeaten fort, along with the handful of palms growing in front of it, seems placed there to provide some aesthetically-pleasing foreground to anyone looking or photographing in the direction of the sea beyond.

It would be mighty easy to hang around this lovely place and wile away the afternoon, read a bit, perhaps take a nap, but the march of the big trip is sometimes a merciless thing.

It's an easy 10 or 15 minute walk into Houmt Souk. Despite the fact that it's not high season, the island's only real city seems pretty alive with activity, touristic and otherwise. This is supposed to be one of the great beach locations in Tusnisia - the zone touristique mercifully cannot be seen from the Dar Faiza - but as pleasing as the weather is, I don't imagine the 60 degree temperatures and steady sea breeze are enticing many people into the surf. So, everyone is roaming around Houmt Souk.

We skirt the souks for the most part, leaving those for later if we have the energy. However,there's such a prevalence of colorful pottery being sold, the like of which we've seen plenty of elsewhere, that one can hardly be in Houmt Souk without tripping over the stuff. The interesting thing is that we see as many Arab people who seem to be on vacation as Europeans or other visitors. While we're eating our lunch upstairs in a restaurant in the village center, the dining room is given over mostly to a long table of what look to be a well-to-do Arab family.

We walk another 10 or 15 minutes down one of the relatively narrow main roads south out of the village center to Hara Kebira, one of Jerba's two Jewish settlements. In fact, the island is the only place where Jews have remained in Tunisia at all. We have read that Jerba's Jewish and Muslim communities coexist pretty peacefully. The road down which we turn into the neighborhood is not open to traffic. There's a concrete barrier and a couple of police officers posted at the corner. They give us a cursory glance, but otherwise we wander freely.

The color scheme certainly doesn't change in this small network of converging streets which form the neighborhood. The buildings seem generally to put their backs to the streets, giving the area more of an austere feeling than that of Houmt Souk. We do see quite a number of hands and fish. The Jerban Jews, like so many of their Arab counterparts, are wary of the evil eye, traditionally, a suspicious look of envy, especially when it comes from strangers. We see a number of both blue fish and hands of Fatima (a hand with thumb and index finger meeting to form the shape of an eye) against the white background of walls to the either side of doorways.

Even after having read a bit about these symbols, I'm not sure what the fish are all about. Fertility? General good luck? I'm at a loss, although the hand and fish are obviously thought of as warding off the bad vibes. Beyond the blue painted fish and the Hand of Fatima on walls, we also espy a series of white fish and plain hands on a railing that fronts a second floor patio.

The other unusual flourish of the otherwise non-descript neighborhood is the street names which provide a break from the standard Avenues Borguiba, Farhat Hached, those bearing the dates of significant moments in the country's history, etc. In Hara Kebira, the streets are actually named after fruits and nuts.

Down one of the fruity or nutty streets, we are surprised to happen upon three of our fellow riders from the long bus ride. We pass the two young women and the reluctant seat sharer. There seems to be a minor acknowledgment on both sides and we go about our tourist business.

A less ambivalent acknowledgment occurs when we come upon a few children playing in an adjacent street. Two kids are clambering on what I assume is their family's white van. I raise my camera in both hands in a questioning gesture. They smile back at me placidly and I take their picture: a boy on the roof of the car, round of head, with closely cropped hair, he with the more blatant smile of the two, dark pants and red and black fleece, recumbent, legs crossed in front of him, leaning back on his arms; a beautiful little girl with hair nearly as short, an enigmatic smile as she twists back toward the camera, seemingly standing on one of the windshield wipers, muted pink sweater with some sort of serpentine pattern across the chest, purple wrap around her waist, over a long black skirt, revealing at its base two long socks, pastel rainbows of horizontal stripes.

I lower the camera and wave as the chldren continue to smile. We go on our way. It's a very nice way to end our brief exploration of Hara Kebira.

At first blush, the souk area of the village looked rather modest, but as we're wandering around, particularly through the covered passageways of the qaysarriya, we're suprised at the extent of it all. It's rather more quiet in the northern, qaysarriya half, which is welcome thing here at day's end. As we walk into the more popular souks, we're subjected to the nationalistic inquiries to which we've already grown accustomed: Ca va? Deutsch? English? We slow enough to tell one shopkeeper that we're actually American. This elicits the usual surprise, but we're also kind of touched when he gets around to the happy subject of our new president. He says "Obama, he's one of us," patting his chest. Encouraging.

Crevette? What's Crevette? Oh, the rigors of the restaurant menu when one's French is feeble. We're at the exceedingly cozy Il Papagallo restaurant, maybe half way up the road between the Dar Faiza and the village center. It's walls are esentially glass, so aside from the ample amounts of vegetation that are hung between the tables and upright windows, we seem a glowing little culinary oasis in the midst of the Jerban night. The coziness is only enhanced by the prominent wood oven.

The same wood oven is supposed to produce delicious pizzas, but even I decide to opt for something else. Our question about the crevette is passed on to our waitress and then to a couple of guys at an adjacent table. In an amusing, somewhat confusing roundelay in English, French and Italian, we are made to believe that crevette is shrimp. Well and good, but we're both having pasta, me some carbonara, Lee a plate of deciedly green pasta. Both dishes are delicious and filling. We conclude our comfortable decadence with a shared panna cotta with caramel.

As we walk back to the Dar Faiza amid the steady sea breeze, I'm feeling a bit like the lotus eaters to which this island likes to lay claim. I feel so far away from home and really don't have the least desire to leave this place.

THIS ELEVATOR GOES TO 11 (BUT NOT 5)

sergei272 — Sat, 9 Jan 2010 05:30:00 GMT

I like this driver. Unlike yesterday's driver to El Jem, he's smooth, allowing a good following distance between us and vehicles ahead and isn't prone to passing on hills. A good way to start what looks to be a long day of traveling. It's supposed to take us about 90 minutes to get down to Sfax, full of all those overly-industrious Sfaxians, then another four and a half hours to get to Djerba island, our next destination. And ho-hum, it looks to be another perfect day.

Sfax is bustling. I'm not that impressed with what I can see as our louage hits the late-morning traffic on Avenue de L'Armee and then takes a right on Avenue Bourguiba. We skirted the medina, but there was little to see aside from it's buff-colored, crenelated ramparts. I'm glad we chose to spend our time elsewhere.

The louage station is some distance from the city center, in an area that has the bleak feeling of an industrial zone. It's certainly a much larger station than that of El Jem or Mahdia. We were told that tickets need to be purchased for destinations out of this bigger, more formal station, so I leave Lee with our a bags on a sidewalk and walk into the station's central building.

The station is buzzing with travelers and drivers, walking to and fro, some sitting in one of the two small cafes. There are seemingly doors in all directions that lead to other parts of the station's sprawling lot. I'm a bit overwhelemed by all this activity, but uttering "Djerba?" to a couple of people gets me to a counter where I'm able to purchase tickets for our long ride.

I hand our small, rectangular tickets with Arabic writing on them to a guy who seems to be the louage wrangler back in the lot. He directs Lee and I to a waiting van whose side door is open. We stow our bags and take our positions in the back seat. Since there's only a couple of more people in the van, Lee decides she has time to use the bathroom before we depart.

I watch her disappear as she works her away among all the people moving about outside the central building. A young man, who I assume will be joining us, is standing just outside the open door. When he turns around and faces me, he gives me a low-key, but not unfriendly "Salaam." I'm grateful both for the gesture and the fact that it's one of the few Arabic words I can understand.

There's a relatively old guy in the seat in front of me and a woman the other side of middle age enclosed in several layers of clothing in the front seat. As I wait for Lee to return, another young man approaches the van and begins a sales pitch. He's hawking perfume. He tries the woman in front first, but he makes both my friend in the burnoose in the seat ahead and me aware that he's got a fragrance for us as well. I watch as the man in front of me tries a sample of the stuff; I smile and shake my head when offered a whiff as well. I'm surprised that the cologne bears an English name which I can read on the box. I'm even more surprised that my potential new cologne is called "Prison Break."

Hmm...what pray tell is the smell of a prison break? Desperation? Sweat? A longing for freedom? I'm not really intrigued, but my older friend in front of me is having a good time, so much so that he extends his left wrist when half-jokingly offered the female scent. He sniffs the fragrance and laughs, as do I and and everyone else.

It wasn't actually too long after Lee's return that the van filled up in short order and we were off. As opposed to yesterday's trip to El Jem, which took place on regional, if well-maintained roads, today we're out on what looks like a major highway. Given the distance we need to cover, I'm happy to see us speeding down an expressway.

Well, I'm happy to see us speeding along, until I see a sign along the right side of the road. I'm pretty sure it listed Tunis among a couple of other cities and accompanying mileages. Tunisis is north of Sfax. Djerba is south. We're supposed to be heading south. Lee has already closed her eyes and seems to be dozing. I don't want to bother her yet, but I have a bad feeling.

And there's another road sign...and...yes, it lists points north. Oh, shit. We're going the wrong way. My mind quickly retraces the steps back to the louage station in Sfax. When I said Djerba to the guy in the ticket booth, we clearly were not thinking of the same place. Shit. I rouse Lee and tell her we are indeed going the wrong way.

Excerpts from travel misadventure #2: Not knowing how far north we might get taken before the next stop, wondering if I'm going to have to ask the van to stop prematurely at some point. Anticipating that embarrassment. Very relieved to see our driver taking the El Jem exit. Determining that there are no louages going south from El Jem any time soon. Not really all that happy to see the amphitheatre again quite so soon. Trundling bags over to the rail station. Trying to figure out when the next train to Sfax might be, the crowded waiting room, trying to read the rail chart on the wall, asking the ticket taker who says something that contradicts the chart on the wall, bothering another guy at the station in his office, who's actually pretty nice about it. His consulting a book with train times and saying there is a train to Sfax within the hour. Looking for the bus station in the midst of all this, supposedly just across the street, but seeing no building that seems devoted to the purpose. Might as well be looking for snipe, the mythical jackalope or a pretty unicorn for all the luck I'm having. No longer having it in me to ask directions or questions of strangers. Minor breakdown back at rail station after unsuccessful unicorn expedition. Lee, taking all this much better than me, taking over information quest. Inquiry of rail time again from nice man in office. Reiteration that there is upcoming trail bound for urban Charybdis which is Sfax. Armed with certainty, again requesting two tickets for said train from lounging ticket agent. As if first such interaction was figment of my imagination, tickets dispensed without incident. Lee in floppy sun hat, sitting on somewhat weather-beaten bench, slats Tunisian blue, surrounded by our bags, smiling as I take her picture. Grateful to be traveling with her.

So, Sfax it is then. We were happy enough to see the much-debated train arrive, that the unavailability of seats wasn't a major disappointment. We've had to stand amidst a samll crowd and everyone's bags at one end of a car for the hour-plus ride south.

The pedestrianized, smoothly-tiled delta of the Boulevard Republique turns out to be but a short walk from the rail station down Avenue Bourguiba. This is the heart of the compact, gridded, French new town. While it may be a bit bland by big city standards, it does look more cosmopolitan than I was giving it credit for earlier. All we need now is a place to sleep tonight.

There's no room at the inn, at least at the fairly glitzy-looking Hotel Thyna, which had orginally been on our itinerary. But then we decided to scorn Sfax, which I felt was now scorning us back. Fortunately, there's lots of hotels in the area, and any worries about being homeless tonight are dispelled at the nearby Hotel Colisee.

The Colisee seems cozy and kind of old-fashioned. I'm not entirely comfortable with the old-fashioned practice of taking our passports, but I don't imagine there's much to worry about. We're certainly happy to be shown into our third floor room. But before we have a chance to decamp completely and fully appreciate the, shall we say, eccentric decorative scheme, we realize the toilet doesn't work. Or perhaps I just don't know how to use it. When I turn the handle at the side of the tank, nothing happens. I assume the float's not working, a chain is broken, or something. I take the lid off, and while nothing looks broken, there's next to no water in the tank. Are we supposed to put water in ourselves? Perhaps with the little hose just adjacent to the toilet. Is that what it's for? Or is it just some sort of old world bidet? Well, in my hands, it's a device to soak the floor, which is what happens when I turn it on.

Back down to our old friends at reception we go. I fully expect that the hotel worker who accompanies us back up to our room will show me the error of my ways, but he can't make the toilet work either. His boss indicates that we are to be shown to a new room on five. Grateful that we had not unpacked further, we cram ourselves and bags into the small elevator.

Ah, the elevator. Actually, it is the elevator panel which fascinates. It's a sinuous burgundy panel on the stainless (though smudgy) steel wall of the elevator. Some floors actually have a black button, discernable silver floor number and brail explication thereof. However, not every floor fares so well. In the spaces where there should be buttons for the ground and forth floor buttons, one sees a small, rectangular void backed by a jumble of colorful wires. Instead of a drearily predictable "3" in the third floor space, there is instead a mysteriously placed down arrow button. As if the subject of recent surgery, our very own fifth floor space is covered with electrical tape. We decide to press the button for six and carry our bags down to five.

As if to compensate for the dark corridor down which we're directed on the fifth floor, we find some rather bold dashes of color in our room. Lee says she likes the place, she can see signs of it's former colonial elegance. That seems a generous assessment to me, but I like that she can appreciate the room. We've got a t.v. stand with no t.v. in our very compact sleeping area, drapes and bedspread in varying patterns of the same yellow and green and then there's the bathroom.

Mind you, the toilet functions perfectly well. But in a scene reminiscent of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, I regard a towel rack that holds the only two towels assigned to the room, of such a size that they can only aspire to be hand towels when they grow up. On my left, an earnestly fraying cloth in stripes of white and that ominipresent blue, bordered in black. On my right, in bold contrast, a pink towel with vertical pattern of red, orange and white rectangles. All of this against a dizzying floral tile pattern, one big gold and turquoise flower per square. Wow. I might leave the place damp, but it does not lack for personality.

This is kind of my idea of dining hell, but I was too hungry to seek out another restaurant for our late lunch. And this sandwich is pretty good. There were surprisingly no good options that we could see on either side of the broad Boulevard Republique, so we came around the corner to this shop on the Avenue Ali Belhoune, just across the street from the south rampart of the medina and the Bob Diwan gate. What I assume to be the proprietor, working behind a kind of fixed street vendor set-up in this open-air entry and seating area, beckoned us in and directed us upstairs to an covered seating area. Perhaps he thought he was doing us a favor, but the small room's tables were strewn with wrappers and left over bits of sandwich and a happy population of flies were working the room.

So, back down here we came to have at our sandwiches, sans napkins and utensils. After we sat down and started to work at our messy but delcious sandwiches, Lee went back to the sandwich preparation area, a somewhat disturbing mess itself, but could find neither napkins nor utensils. Fortuantely, some kind women at an adjacent table recognized our plight and gave us their forks. If only there were napkins. We wipe our greasy hands on the wax paper in which our spicy, pocket sandwiches were served. By meal's end, we're both very much in need of a few most towlettes. But we're no longer hungry.

The days trials continued as my eyes grew increasinly irritated before we could get to the Bob Diwan gate. I realize that I probably rubbed my eyes with one of my harrissa-coated hands. Thank goodness the Colisee is close by. We actually are able to wait out a short rain shower while I clean my contacts and we both freshen up.

Through the Bab Diwan gate, past a platform on which a group of musicians are playing what sounds like traditional Arabic music (amplified very loudly)and past yet another cafe full of men mesmerized by a football match on t.v., we're in the Sfax medina. It's been a long day, but I'm glad we got to see this medina, apparently used in the English Patient because of its relative authenticity and unspoiled-ness. As we were led to believe, it truly is a place where some of the people of Sfax still live and work.

The Sfax medina is essentially a big rectangle with lanes running at right angles to each other. How could one lose one's sense of direction here? Well, easily enough actually.

We do well enough as we head due north up Rue de la Grande Mosque, past the eponymous building, into the Souk des Etoffes (the fabric market), every bit the tunnel of rich color you would expect. We're kind of excited to check out the Blacksmiths Souk at the northern end of the medina. Well, we were excited, as there is mainly an empty space where that old-time souk used to be. Not so with the food market, actually through the northern rampart and Bab Jebli. It's abuzz with people, presumably shopping for the evening and weekend ahead.

I turn my digital camera to its video setting so I can record some of the calls of vendors. I'm more interested in the sights at this moment, but when I point the camera at a group of tomato stalls, the sight one of the young vendors in a red rugby shirt smiling back me and pointing - at what I cannot determine - is like a warm ray of light breaking through an indifferent gray sky.

As our medina divagations continue, we decide to step through another of the main gates. Is is Bab Dharbi? Bab Chergui? I dont' know - it's one of the Babs. Much as I think I know where we're going, which gate we've just walked through and where we have just re-entered after seemingly walking around much of the periphery of the walled city, I have no idea. Only when we get back to the main lane and find ourselves all the way back at the food market do I have any sense of where we're at. Again, I'm humbled after a bit of medina hubris, thinking my sense of direction would not fail me.

Discarding uptight notions about things like, you know...place and direction, we wander freely for the remainder of our late-afternoon time in the medina. We spend much of this time walking quiet lanes given to residences and shops. We see a few examples of clothing and fabric artisan shops, usually some sort of front counter, behind which would be a small ladder leading to crampt-looking loft a half storey above, with a couple of workers obliviously plying their trades.

At one point, not too far removed from the Souk des Etoffes, we happen upon on a narrow stairway and decide to try our luck. It leads us up to a rooftop, which essentially is all the rooftops of the medina. Not that our immediate view affords much in the way of secret beauty of surprising vistas. In our immediate range of vision is some random garbage, a few satellite dishes and a blue street sign (Rue des Aghlarites)detached from a nearby lane. However, we do now have an excellent view of the minaret of the Great Mosque.

The minaret is exceptional not only for the mass of it's square tower, but for the strange birthday-cake-like nature of its upper reaches, the minaret set back near its peak to a more squat version of itself, that topped by a little cupola on four columns through which the muezzin would formerly call the faithful to prayer (visible loud speaks now can be seen, as a muezzin is no longer responsible for calling above the din of a modern city). A fairly intense horizontal band of religious inscriptions is set amongst other bands of stylized geometric patterns, one row of which looks like a series of round speakers rendered in the tan stone.

Even better than a good view, we're now standing standing right next to a mosque, the Sidi Karray, in the quiet western side of the medina. Little good it does as though, as we are as ever a couple of heathens figuratively pressing our cold little noses against the window. Which is to say we can't go in. But there are lots of great doors around the area of the mosque, varying in both color and design, in contrast to the fairly uniform faded blue of most of the medina's doors and frames.

While we're milling around the Sidi Karray Mosque, a young woman coming out of a shop gets our attention. We're made to understand that there's a good view to be had from within what looks to be a dress shop. She's so oddly, amiably insistent, that the skepticism we have already developed for such come-ons is overcome. We walk into the dress shop, to the back of the dress shop, back to the front of the dress shop...not only do we see no door or stairway that would lead us up to the supposed view, none of the few young women working in the shop try to sell us anything. They smile cryptically at us, we smile confusedly back and walk out of the store, not at all sure what that was all about.

A far less ambiguous and more satisfying exchange occurs a short while later while we're back near the middle of the medina. We're stopped at the convergence of two lanes and Lee is checking something about her camera. I see a fairly old woman walking toward us up the narrow street, balancing a broad, flat metal pan full of pastry. My attention returns to Lee, as I want to make sure she moves aside so we don't get in the woman's way. By the time I look up, the woman has with mysterious grace reached up, grabbed two pieces of the pastry still warm from the oven and hands them to me. This all happens so quickly and I'm so taken aback that I can barely nod in thanks to the woman, whose recognition occurs with the most subtle of smiles, before she turns the corner and is gone, like some sort of benign pastry-bringing apparition. No overblown difficulty of the day can compete with the pleasure that simple gesture provided to me.

What is this, Tunisian independence day or something? We're back at the Colisee, among our tacky drapes and bedspread and half-packed bags, and the streets below are a cacophony of car horns. And yes, as it turns it, this is a Tunisian independence day, March 20 being the date of their independence from France in 1956.

The unending salute of horns is boisterous crescendo to a quiet evening, when Sfax's reputation as a less-than-happening urban center has asserted itself. We went out in the early evening into the new town across Avenue Borguiba, but could find neither a couple of the restaurants we hand in mind nor any other place that looked inviting. There were certainly a few groups of people we encountered on the streets, but it all seemed very quiet for a Friday night.

We finally settled on Au Bec Fin, where we were the only patrons, save a lone male diner. Our waiter paced incessantly around the modest, rectangular dining room during our eminently average meal. We then consoled ourself with some ice cream at a sleek corner store on the broad boulevard, within site of the Bob Diwan gate of the medina.

When we got back to the Colisee, we inquired about the hotel bar. Not open, was the answer we got from the desk, this despite the clamor heard from within. A staff party perhaps? Who knows. But it probably would have just been another smoky, male bastion.

To the soundtrack of celebratory horn honking, muted as much as it can be by the the closed French doors of our balcony, we're taking occasional nips of Jameson from my flask, reading our respective books and thinking about the day ahead tomorrow. I hope sheet of bus times I have is accurate and we can make it to Djerba at last.

WASH YOURSELF WELL IN BLOOD, RINSE, REPEAT

sergei272 — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 05:36:00 GMT

The cab drops us at our first louage station, basically a garage a couple of miles from the city center. We don't know what to expect, but when we say "El Jem" to the milling drivers, we're quickly directed to a white van that is bound for the city. The louages are all white vans of various sizes. We sit patiently and expectantly in the van, watching the seeming chaos resolve itself as newcomers are directed to the next vehicle bound for their destination. Within ten minutes, our van pulls out of the garage, with Lee and I sharing a middle bench seat with an older woman. It's nice if unspectacular drive through the Sahel countryside and it's endless groves of olive trees.

Once I've determined that we're going in the right direction based on the road signs, my relaxtion is tested only by our driver's tendancy to tailgate before passing. But within an hour and without incident, we're dropped off in El Jem.

I had thought we might see the amphitheatre looming over El Jem at some distance, but that proves not to be the case, at least at the angle from which we have approached the city. But when we start walking and turn a corner north, thar she blows. As we stare up the angling Rue de la Grande Mosquee, mainly whitewashed buildings on the left, brown and pastel blue buildings on the right, all of a modest single story, the towering curve of the amphitheatre looks like a Roman backdrop that has crashed into the end of the street.

As we walk, or more accurately are drawn down the street, the sky takes on a threatening, appropriately martial appearance over the amphitheatre, benign cumulus converging into a dark-bottomed, leaden mass. But as we continue, the clouds separate and light prevails for our exploration and picture-taking.

Lee decides to get an audio tour while I choose to rely on my rather more dubious inner narrator. We go wandering our separate ways.

One of the great things about the place is that we are quite free to wander. Safety railings have been put up here and there, sections have no doubt been shored up, but there is little evidence of the present day. It seems very much a ruin.

The ravages of past centuries - whether the hauling away of countless stones for the building of the surrounding town or the great mosque at Kairouan, or the fact the the building occasionally suffered cannon fire to flush pesky rebels holed up inside - has served in a way to offer up more comprehensive views of the structure inside and out. On one side just the lonesome, truncated curve of a large seating bowl, the rows generously proportioned, almost the entire backing wall obliterated. At one time, the amphitheatre appparently had a capacity of about 35,000, exceeded by only two other such arenas in the Roman Empire.

Perhaps the strongest visual motif of the amphitheatre is the convex curve. It it present not only in the shape of the amphitheatre as a whole, but in the multitude of tall, semi-circular arches that penetrate the various layers of the building, pathways for natural light from without and walkways for people within. In some sections, the arches sit clothed in comfortable perfection, nothing having been lost over time, while elsewhere they form a stark pattern of a few naked rings of stone against the sky.

Opposite the bank of seats, the entire wall of the amphitheatre is in place. On this side I'm able to climb to the upper levels. There are great views to be had of the the town beyond, the interior of the building, all the gradations of color due to weather and pollution, the stubborn patches of vegetation clinging to sections of wall and areas on the floor, most everything. I run into my lovely traveling companion and we sit for a few minutes, regarding the amphitheatre from on high before splitting up again.

Bread and circuses. Panis et circenses to you Latin speakers. The practice of providing handouts and petty amusements by politicians to gain popular support, instead of gaining it through sound policy. Sound at all familiar? But, of course, we're talking ancient history here. Keep the populace comlacent and distract them from obvious corruption and social inequities. A very effective tool, but the problem, as we have found out in our own increasingly, elaborately distracted society, such a populace requires more and more distraction to keep it satisfied.

After leaving Lee, I make my way down to the floor of the amphitheatre and then find one of the stairways that leads to the subterranean chambers. There's a long central corridor, basically an extended barrel vault, with numerous side chambers. From these subterranean reaches, those clever Romans would hoist gladiators, animals, even theatrical scenery. Skylights of a sort are cut into the floor to provide some light, at least in the central corridor.

Wild animals were in plentiful supply in Africa. No doubt, they died by the thousands at El Jem. They might be pitted against each other, but those crowds wanting more and more could also demand human life, abundant and cheap in its way. Criminals, prisoners, even those whose crime was nothing more than debt, were pitted against each other or against those wild animals, sometimes thrown into their midst unarmed. When a gladiator was on the verge of dispatching a victim, apparently a favorite cheer was "Bene lava!," "Wash yourself well in blood." to you non-Latin speakers.

As I wandered the central corridor beneath the amphitheaters floor, occasionally taking a tentative step or two into a dark side chamber, or looking up through one of the small openings in the stone above me, I tried to imagine what it must have felt like for a man awaiting his participation in one of those grand entertainments. As he heard roar of thousands, the cry for blood, how he must have wondered how his life had come to this.

I see a few boys lingering at the far end of the corridor. Even as a group, they certainly aren't large enough to pose any sort of threat. At worst, they probably would just cadge a few coins. But I'm adequately spooked by this subterranean darkness and my own reveries to make me want to avoid any sort of negative exchange down here. I walk back to the stairway down which I had come and return to the abundant light of the amphitheatre floor.

I join Lee back on one of the hard row of seats, wandering away briefly to snap a few photos of her. We observe a tour group down on the amphitheatre floor and are impressed with one of the guides, as his explanations seem to move effortlessly between English, French and German.

We've seen so much already in a few days in Tunisia, and it hasn't exactly been a string of disappointing experiences. But wandering around the amphitheatre at El Jem, sitting peacefully as we are, I feel for the first time in the midst of a fairly timeless, dreamt-of moment. I'm reluctant to leave, but it does seem time to go at last.

As we emerge from the great building and approach the shops and cafes across Avenue...wait for it...Borguiba, one of the cafe owners importunes us to patronize his fine establishment. It's not the place where we're going to have lunch, but we do agree to sit down and have some tea.

The cafe is actually a good vantage point from which to take a photo of the amphitheatre. Just as I'm starting to get the entire arc of the south side of the structure into frame, a camel pulling a cart moseys into the shot and stops directly in my line. In a further gesture of disdain, the poor beast, laboring in some sort of camel purgatory and way beyond self consciousness, lets loose with an impressive stream of urine. Ah, the majesty.

The admission to the amphitheatre also admits us to the town's archeological museum, which is supposed to contain mosaics quite "fresh and vigorous" according to my guidebook, so here we are before the simple though fairly elegant white edifice.

The white-washed building is surprisingly lovely and sprawling, highlighted by an open-air cetral courtyard with mosaics on the walls of its colonnade. Most of the mosaics originally decorated second and third century Roman villas in Thysdrus (the name of the ancient city on the site of El Jem). And I'll be damned if the mosaics aren't both fresh and vigorous, spectacular in fact. Generally they're more complete than the mosaics we saw at the Bardo and the colors do seem amazingly fresh, even while most are in rendered in earth tones against white or off-white backgrounds.

My favorite is in the room, strangely named the Genius of the Year Room, just behind the courtyard. It's a hemispherical mosaic over a doorway depicting a peacock, though very nearly abstract, its tail feathers fanning out in triangles of muted green, yellow and red. I've never seen anything quite like and am transfixed for a time. I would have made the trip from Mahdia for this alone.

Lee's as thrilled with the place as I am, perhaps more. The happy spell is for a while challenged by a loud group of German tourists, the worst of whom is droning into his cell phone. It's a rare instance when someone on one of the infernal devices actually has something to report, but somehow I'm don't think he's gushing about the transcendantly beautiful mosaics.

We manage to lose the tour group by the time we get to the Maison d'Africa, over three thousand square meters of Roman Villa transported and rebuilt in its entirety from a location in the middle of present-day El Jem to the back of the Archeological Museum. The villa comes complete with a courtyard, small pool and even more great mosaics. This museum is a none-too-small treasure trove.

After we poke through the Maison d'Africa, we start our loop back by strolling through small field of excavations between the villa and side entrance to the museum. While examining some stray sculpture, a man approaches me and begins to hold forth on whatever piece I happen to be facing. I can't quite place his accent. Italian perhaps? Or maybe he's just Tunisian, with an odd accent speaking English. He's of medium height, and pretty well put together. Is he a docent? A lonely man with a lot of knowledge to share? Does he expect a tip? Whatever the case, I decide to break away when his attention is caught by another museum visitor. I make a break back for the museum building. As we walk back toward the town center, we see him unlean a bike from a wall outside the museum and ride off. Godspeed mystery docent!

The old ladies in the store are laughing at Lee. Just up the street from the museum, we have come across a row of shops and Lee's attention was caught by some smimple wooden kitchen tools. After she purchases one such spoon, the women working in the shop chuckle at her purchase. Whether this is because she bought just a spoon, or whether they wonder what sort of god-forsaken country we come from where a simple spoon can't be head, we really don't know. But it's always nice to leave 'em laughing.

We have found that the Restaurant du Bonheur, right at the convergance of two of the more major of El Jem's streets, bears an appropriate name. We're quite happy with our lunch, thank you very much. It's been a simple meal, sandwiches after the usual preliminary of olives, harissa and bread, but the sandwiches are delicious and the restaurant has a light, salubrious feel about it. We were distracted by our satisfying meal only by a large party that came in after us, assembling at a long table opposite us. It's a motley, seemingly international crew, perhaps some of whom are filming a segment for a travel program, if the large, professsional video camera sitting at one end of the table is any indication.

We have decided to round out our day by walking all the way around the Mahdia peninsula, to the Cap d'Afrique and back around the south side. Out along the Cap d'Afrique, a walking path leaves the road behind, but that's not nearly good enough for me. After mounting a squarish pedestal of stones which appears to be the remnant of some watch structure - Lee photographs me assuming both the arms akimbo pose and that of the great explorer, right hand shading my eyes as I regard seemingly infinite sea - I clamber out toward the end of the Cap, dodging openings in the rock.

Well, not quite all of the openings. In my excitement at getting to the very edge of the tawny rock ledge around the Cap, I slip and my left leg gets dunked in the sea up to the knee. Lee is looking on from some distance; I'm not sure if she's seen me fall in, but a salt stain on my left shoe will be an emblem of my folly for all to see for days to come.

But, in my defense, the ridiculous, fairly idyllic beauty of the scene is enough to make most any man act the fool, or at least the child. The calm sea and sky untroubled by clouds form an ebullient color field, sort of like a Rothko, suffused with contentment: the deep, deep blue of the Mediterranean vying with the azure of the sky, a hazy line of demarcation at the horizon. Sort of like my now two-tone jeans... only more satisfying.

Lee and her wet-legged consort are now on the south side of the peninsula, a short walk at this narrow end of the Cap d'Afrique. The sea is now at our left, a modest graveyard to our right. It seems to spread without border across the hillside, uniformly small and white upright markers and (in some cases) large horizontal slabs over individual graves.

Atop the gentle slope are a couple of marabouts, the white-washed cubes that contain the tombs of holy men, with their tell-tale koubbas (the ubiquitous little hemispherical domes that dot the country). I can't think that it matters to the bones in the ground either way, but as final resting places go, it's hard to imagine a better spot.

We'll probably walk back to the Place du Caire, check in with our mysterious friend in the burgundy jacket and do a bit more postcard writing over mint teas. After a rest back at the Phenix, we'll find some place for dinner, perhaps try more of the local seafood and even sip some of the demon liquor, if it can be had. All very good and necessary things in their way, but this walk has been like the perfect dessert, delicate and sublime, after the meal substantial of the day, El Jem and everything else. I can't speak for Lee, but I'm pretty sated and happy.

ON YOUR RIGHT, A COMPLETELY ORDINARY ELECTRIC PLANT

sergei272 — Sat, 23 May 2009 04:15:00 GMT

I can see the gigantic, navy blue Arabic letters of the train station looming over the south end of Place Barcelone. We've trundled our bags over from the Marine station and are headed south this morning. We're excited to be heading down the coast and beginning our circuit of the country, but it was with some mixed feelings that we left the cozy Hotel Bou Fares and whitewashed Sidi Bou Said.

As we head toward track six, I take in the capacious interior of the station beneath the typical convex curve of its roof. Train stations take me back to the first days of my traveling as a student in Britain, waiting for trains at Kings Cross station. Such romantic places, all about possibility.

We paid the minor premium to buy ourselves seats in the first class coach, but quickly find out that these are not the European or American notions of first class. We're barely able to find two seats together at the front of the first class car, and are knocking knees with the guys facing us. But at least we're sitting down.

I watch the mountains around Tunis eventually give way to the farmland of the Sahel. The two hours or so pass quicky with reading, dozing, watching the landscape slide by.

The train station at Sousse seems relatively small and peaceful. We take a few minutes to collect ourselves and split a Cliff bar before venturing out for a cab. This brings us to our hijacking du jour.

We get into the the cab of a twenty-something driver. I quickly determine that he has a functioning meter. We skirt the eastern side of the medina as we proceed through the city center. I had told him that we wanted to go to the Bab Jedid station just a few miles away, where we could catch one of the Sahel Metro trains down to our destination, Mahdia.

After what seems a couple of miles, Lee and I exchange mildly concerned looks and I reiterate that we want to go Bab Jedid station. Sahel Metro. As before, he nods his head in the affirmative and says "Monastir." "No, Mahdia," I say. In the midst of many explicatory Arabic words that I don't understand, he says "Monsatir" and "Mahdia," and "Sousse," this last word accompanied by a hand gesture indicating some sort of negation. Finally, we realize that he's saying there is no Sahel Metro station in Sousse. He's taking us to Monastir to catch the train. And as he guessed, we aren't going to make an issue out of it.

So, southward along the coast to Monastir we go, hoping that we'll be let out at some point near a train station. As if to compensate for our abduction and inflated fare he makes friendly with us, first pointing out the picture of his daughter hanging from the roof of the cab. The picture of the cute kid bears an unlikely, pre-fab English caption, "I'm the boss here." Clearly, we're not the boss here. Essentially, he's using the kid as a minor human shield. But ever polite, we provide the requisite compliment. Lee says "tres joli," as the very words were forming in my mouth.

As we proceed south to, let us hope, only Monastir, our young driver points to the right side of the road and says "electric." "Ah," we intone, yes. An electric plant. A completely ordinary electric plant. And to think we might have missed it.

We're quite relieved when we actually take the turnoff to Monastir. As we come upon cars, our driver proves rather impatient with most any vehicle that slows our progress, saving his strongest gesticulation and verbal outbursts for those talking on cell phones.

With some relief, we're dropped off safely and in front of what appears to be a train station in Monastir. The next train is about to leave for points south, so we have to hustle out to the platform and on to a crowded train.

There's no seats to be had and we have to stand between cars with a few other people. When the conductor comes round, I can't find my ticket, having lost it somewhere in the near-sprint to the train. As I'm fumbling, a girl near us tries to intervene on our behalf with the conductor. I finaly give up and buy another ticket, the conductor affably reminding me to take care of this one.

The girl, probably in her late teens, attractive and dressed in fairly western fashion, seems happy to have an opportunity to speak to Lee. When she finds out that we're from Chicago, she alludes to the great international Chicago identifier - at least, perhaps, the female version, the male version being Michael Jordan and/or the Chicago Bulls - asking "Do you know Oprah?" Well, not exactly. She also introduces her sister, who's sporting a cast on her left arm. She's very nice, and I think we're both grateful for the brief, but warm exchange.

The Hotel Phenix de Mahdia looms gleaming and a bit tacky, west of the medina and the heart of the old town, as if the detached prow of the zone touristique further up the coast. After navigating a slightly strange conversation with a gentleman at the desk who expresses his preference for the Tunis medina over that of his native Sfax and also reinforces the national stereotype about Sfaxians being boring, overly industrious types, we let the shiny gold doors of the elevator whisk us up to our very spacious room.

A small balcony affords a view out to the sea, sort of, if you can imagine the buildings across Avenue Borghuiba not being there. The view from the rooftop deck requires no such imaginative leaps. The vista out to sea and toward the medina is unchallenged. However, the rooftop pool, filled only with discolored rain water, is not exactly giving us come hither glances. No great loss there, as the accumulating warmth of the train rides and baggage wheeling had already been dissipated in the cool air and strong sea breezes of Mahdia.

It's about a ten minute walk through the relatively new town down Avenue Bourguiba, alive with the sound whizzing and screaming motor scooters. As we walk through the Skifa el Khala, a sixteenth century reconstruction of the gateway blown up by the Spaniards in 1554 (at that point already 600 years old), I add my own word to our travel lexicon, as Lee had with the squabbit: toutesphere. The toutesphere being that distance, that ring around a city center at which one begins to encounter Tunisian commerce at its most aggressive and interactive. In Mahdia, we enter the toutesphere in the Skifa. It renders the darkish tunnel of the gateway something of a souvenir gauntlet. Step lively my friends.

Further on, as we approach the Place du Caire, working our way through a narrow street of souvenir shops, a young man, trying to indentify our nationality, finally comes to his British query, which comes out as "Hi dee ho!" This spoken in a pretty impressive characature of an upper crust English accent. Later, sitting in Place du Caire, we laugh every time we hear the "Hi-dee-ho's," particularly the the last vowell sound twisted with so much faux superciliousness. We dont' buy any of his wares, but we have to give the kid style points.

The Restaurant el Moez is the sort of place I'd usually walk right by, sitting in quiet alley adjacent to the Skifa, not a midday patron to be found, no food in the glass case at the counter. But we have read good things about it and we're hungry. What we assume to be the proprietor, and easy going guy about 40, gets up and sweeps his arm, indicating that we can sit down at any of the modest tables with their red and white checked vinyl tablecloths.

And a good lunch is had by one and...well, the other one. Harissa, merguez, fresh fish. Given the proximity of the sea, the fresh fish isn't a surprise, but the general quality of the meal, consistent with the good reviews, is. Despite the complete lack of customers and activity in the restaurant - we saw no one working in the restaurant save our host - good food magically emerged from behind the counter. And who are we to question that?

During our meal, a fairly scruffy local wandered in with whom our host seemed to be on familiar terms. I thought he looked a bit bohemian, perhaps a local artist. Lee felt that perhaps it was just a guy who needed a good meal, which would explain why the man came and went without any exchange of money. That possibility only further endeared the proprietor to me.

We brave the souvenir shops long enough to buy some postcards and retire to Place du Caire to do some writing. There seem to be a couple of cafes that utilize the tables and chairs in the Place du Caire. Early in the afternoon, it's just us and a bunch of local guys. We order tea from a waiter who seems straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. Wearing a fairly formal burgundy waiter's jacket, sporting a narrow mustache, he's diminutive in size goes about his business with a poker face that alters only slightly when he converses briefly with some of the locals. I like him, but if a dead body is found at any point, I'm pretty sure he's going to be the culprit or know who is.

There's no mayhem, but a swarm of tourists does pass through while we're working at our postcards. This is the first I've seen such a clear example of a horde of tourists being dropped off by a coach - whether from the nearby zone touristique or an adjacent town I don't know - and moving through en masse through a town center like locusts. I wonder if they feel like they have gained the flavor of Mahdia in their 20-minute pass. Once they're gone, the boys in souvenir alley don't look like they were able to sell much.

A few postcards written and a couple of teas with pine nuts consumed, we wander back out into the perfect, breezy afternoon. Going in the direction of the far end of the peninsula, it's not far at all to the town fortress, the Borj el Kebir. It's already closed for the day, which is not much of the loss according to the old guide book, "bleak" and "uninteresting" having figured in the unflattering appraisal. Although apparently the Borj does offer great views...without, presumably, anyone trying to sell you a carpet.

We walk past the Borj and then loop back north, leaving the Fatimid Port and furthest extreme of the narrow peninsula, the Cap d'Afrique, for another day. Meandering back toward the medina along Rue Sidi Jabeur and other close, shady, residential lanes, it's mainly us, local women and children. I'm guessing these are streets usually not penetrated by the passing hordes from Zone Touristique. A shame, as the intimate streets are a peaceful way to end an afternoon in Mahdia.

As we're getting back to the heart of the medina, the thrum of looms can be heard and their products can occasionally seen in open shop doors. The weaving, silk and otherwise, is supposed to be among the best one can find in Tunisia.

"We're looking at live pictures of a live fire in historic London." As opposed to live pictures of the fire of 1666? Live pictures of the Blitz, perhaps? We regard these verbal gems offered up by a CNN correspondent commenting on a live feed of a blaze from historic old London town. This our pre-dinner and post-nap entertainment, rueful though it may be. Like so many loudly-declaiming, sub-intelligent tourists we foist upon the word, the commentary of the vacuous woman on CNN, absolutely desperate for a teleprompter, seems a further reminder of why we have become so highly thought of abroad.

Not that we have the market cornered on obnoxious behavior. On our way to dinner we stop at a patisserie, as has become our wont. After the gentleman on duty deigns to arise from his chair and wait on us, I indicate what we would like. Unfortunately, I don't understand the prices and keep offering him many times more than the modest sum we owe. Finally, having exhausted the surefire "if they don't understand your language, speak it more loudly and impatiently" course of action, our kind friend takes the appropriate amount from my open hands, leaving me in the classic pose of tourist supplication: "here, please take the appropriate of of your strange money from my humble palm."

After depositing the money in his register, he continues to employ what I can only assume are unfluttering Arabic words as he looks at us, laughs derisively and returns to his chair and television opposite. I decide that I need to expand my Arabic vocabulary to useful words like...oh, asshole. Mean people suck. I fume as we walk toward the restaurant and slowly my male ego calms down.

By dark of night, the Cafe Sidi Salem is not quite as magical as we hoped it might be. The restaurant does have tables on terraces that extend down toward the water. But it's both too cool to sit outdoors - although that hasn't stopped some local men - and there's not enough light to appreciate the view.

The interior is a somewhat smokey, nautically-themed, almost all-male affair, both in terms of the wait staff and handful of customers on hand. Neither the smoke nor the abundance of testosterone leave Lee feeling particularly sanguine about the place. We both select pizzas from the menu and pass the wait for our food by gazing at fish tanks, speculating on our few fellow customers and regarding the one waiter who obliviously sits in his strangely-formal gold jacket in the middle of the seating area watching a television turned up quite loudly. Fortuantely, we do not disturb his viewing.

The pizzas at least are pretty satisfying. Not the greatest dining experience, but our bellies are full as we ply the streets back to the hotel, trying to avoid the rampaging motor scooters of death.

At the far end of the lobby of the Phenix is a small, garish little bar. Not surprisingly, we find it smokey and patronized exlusively by men. We each order a beer and take them up to our room. I'm a bit restless as usual and consider going down for a second beer. But it's been a pretty full day and we have the Amphiteatre in El Jem and our first louage trip to look forward to tomorrow. And who knows, perhaps more electric plants.

BAR TAM TAM? BAR TAM TAM?!!

sergei272 — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 03:42:00 GMT

The train ride into Tunis already seems like old hat as the stations go by and the suburbs give way to the long causeway across Lac Tunis. This will be our day to go to the Bardo Museum. But first we have decided to check out the Hotel Maison Doree as a possible resting place our last night in the country when we return to Tunis at the end of next week. Not that we're particularly eager to think of our last day in the country at this point.

The Maison Doree is down a backstreet between Rue de Yougoslavie and the Place Barcelone. Both the building and the room we're allowed to examine have a modest post-colonial charm and we make a reservation.

Before we proceed to the Bardo, I want to find an internet cafe and send word to my mother that I have not (yet) met with air disaster, kidnapping or food poisoning. We spot the faded purple sign of the Publinet and enter a building through a side door. There's a sign that says "Internet" on a wall atop a first set of stairs. The funny thing is that the sign looks more weathered than many of the area colonial structures as we walk by an door open to a restaurant kitchen and up the stairs in the the grim, grey interior of the building. Once on the second floor, there's no indication of our destination. I feel like we're in some Soviet-era beurocratic hive. But a decidedly non-Soviet-looking man appears and directs us down an unlikley short hallway to the cafe.

So, a very unusual setting for an internet cafe it is, this second floor room looking out to the Place Barcelone. We both get computers and set about conquering the differences provided by the Tunisian keyboard. Okay...the A is up where the Q should be, the M is where the apostrophe should be...and as for the location of the apostrohope, Dannys guess is as good as Lees.

I was curious to see the sort of attention Lee would get among the men of Tunisia, the sort of treatment to which she would be subjected. As I watch her trying to purchase tram tickets for us at a Place Barcelone booth, I see men not gesticulating in impatience at her slowing the line, but helping with the communication between she and the ticket seller in the booth. When she returned to me with the tickets, she confirms that one or two of the men behind her had been helpful.

Without much delay, a tram, one with the memorable terminus of Den Den, pulls up. Compared to what we've seen on the ride in from Sidi Bou Said, a relative war horse of drab blue-grey, this tram is smaller, sleeker and bright green.

We cross the broad Avenue Borguiba and wind our way up to the neighborhood of the Bardo. The exanse of the museum is obvious enough when we get off the train, but finding the entrance and getting safely across the converging nexus of streets adjacent to the station is another matter.

Once we find the entrance to the museum grounds, we decide to get some lunch before contemplating all that art. We parade through a typically male-filled cafe and spot a sandwich shop not far away along a roadside.

It's a narrow little shop. I leave Lee at the back holding a table while I jostle with the lunchtime crowd (mainly guys in suits) at the counter. It's chaotic. Between my ignorance of the protocol of the joint and the inevitable communication challenges, I probably wouldn't stick around if I were on my own. But I perservere, ordering a sandwich for Lee and a "Pizza Maxi" for myself. The latter turns out to be a good pizza, albeit one topped with thon, which is to say, tuna. Stranger still, I actually like it.

Even if you know none of the history of the Bardo - and I know virtually none - it is still easy to come to the conclusion that it's a palace; at least it used to be. The scale is not so overwhelming by the standards of major big city museums, but the quality of variety of the interior decoration is stunning, even without considering the all the Roman mosaics that cover its walls.

And if you're a fan of the mosiacs, as is the case with Lee, there can't be many better places on Earth to wile away a couple of hours. We roam around gaping at the mosaics, finding favorites, taking pictures. Every room seems to have it's own color and style of decorative tile on the walls and elaborate paint schemes on the ceilings. The Bardo lives up to the hype.

We're standing outside the small museum shop across the street from the Bardo, still in the museum complex, Lee with a bottle of water, me with my usual botttle of Diet Coke, and the mid-afternoon sun makes its presence felt. We retreat back to the shade along of the edge of the building to look at a map and contemplate our next move.

Before heading back to our comfortable suburban home away from home, we want to check out a real Tunis faubourg, or neighborhood. Just a few stops on the same tram line back toward the city center, we get off to explore Halfouine. Before we get very far, Lee's attention is captured by a patisserie at the head of Rue du Miel. We decide that it would be wise to fortify ourselves before proceeding further. Many an expedition being tragically derailed by a lack of pastry.

Duly fortified, we walk down Rue du Miel. It's neither as narrow or covered as many of the medina lanes, but still close by our standards. We're seemingly the only tourists to be found in Halfouine, but we don't arouse a great deal of curiousity. I might think twice about wandering into the neighborhood by night, but I don't feel at all uncomfortable in the plentiful light of the afternoon.

We're privy to men sitting outside shops in langorous pairs or trios, the odd group of children kicking a ball around and all the varied traffic and transactions of a main artery. And the street smells good.

After looping around a boulevard at one end of which we find one of the lovlier cafes we've yet seen, it's expanse of plentiful, narrow rectangular windows covered largely by intricately-painted designs, pale green in contrast to the darker green of the posts and trim. It seems all the more alluring seen through the leaves of the trees in the boulevard's median.

Around the corner from the cafe, we reach our main destination, Place Halfouine and the Youssef Sahib et Tabaa Mosque. We regard the mosque from the midst of a modest market, used clothing and oranges and lots of empty plastic crates about us.

The mosque itself is a sprawling mishmash of Arab and Italian influence, the latter manifesting itself mainly in a rare mosque colonnade, metal railings and, as my guidebook points out, "flamboyant black marble."

We venture back out of Halfouine on Rue Souiki Bel Khir, playing dodge the occasional car with the other pedestrians, walking under a very picturesque, ruinous covered passageway over the street, grass growing on it's terra cotta tiles and finally out to Bab el Kahdra, the fourteenth century gate recreated in the late-ninteeth century.

As the tram snakes it's way back through the afternoon traffic of the city center, it occurs to me that we haven't yet had a real travel mishap. And don't the travel gods just love that sort of hubris? When we get back to Place Barcelone, I assume the tram will proceed to the end of the line, conveniently dropping us at Tunis Marine, where we can catch a train back to Sidi Bou Said. By this time, we're both tired and really wanting just to be carried dumbly to our final destination.

However, when the tram again crosses Borghuiba, I have a bad feeling. Sure enough, as I begin to pay attention to the stations I realize we are heading back whence we had just come. Hey look, it's Bab el Khadra! I was hoping to see Halfouine again...someday. But here we are again. For those keeping score at home, this is travel mishap #1. Lee is a good sport about my mistake. We cross the tracks and take another tram back to Place Barcelone. From there, we walk wearily out to Tunis Marine.

By this time, the train back to the suburbs is crowded with people returning from their day in the city. We find ourselves standing sore-footed at the back of the car amongst some schoolgirls and a somewhat strange-looking guy. He's between Lee and I, and I can't quite tell if he's staring at her, or if his left eye is just operating independent of the right. Whatever the case, Lee is a bit creeped out and moves over to my right.

Our friend eventually takes a seat when it opens up, and I can tell from the reactions of the other locals around him, including look askance from a guy I have already dubbed "the dude" -jeans,black hoodie, black cap, under which the edges of his dark hair are visible and periodically checked with his fingertips - that we're not the only ones who find something amiss with this guy.

The hill up to Hotel Bou Fares seems especially steep as we slog our way up from the station. Our would-be tour guide and his affronted house both look upon me darkly as I pass by. Fortunately, I'm way beyond caring. We finish trudging up to the hotel, drop our bags and nap happily.

Running out of dinner options in Sidi Bou Said, we decide to try the restaurant Tam Tam. I'll all for goofy business names and it does evoke a certain something. Maybe not so much the exotic as a kitschy evocation of the exotic. Plus, they're supposed to have a bar. Mainly it's that last thing.

Well, here we are and there's absolutely nothing kitschy or exotic about the Tam Tam. I think they're going more for sleek and modern. The establishment seems to be spread out over a few levels and we're ushered down a short flight of stairs to a modest-sized seating area. To our left is a flat screen t.v. projecting out from a metal arm. As I occasionally look at it over the course of the meal, it seems to be showing some sort of automotive infomercial. To our right is another hallmark of the modern world: guy yammering on cell phone, largely ignoring date.

Tonier still than all the cool surfaces and busy atmospherics is one of the more frou-frou bathrooms I have yet encountered. Eventually I figure out how to make the sink work.

Despite the silly ostentation, the food is surprisingly solid and unpretentious. I have a pretty satisfying little bowl of lasagna and am ready for a drink.

But wither alcohol in this multi-level eatery? With our check paid, we walk back up to the greeting area and Lee finally decides to ask the woman who seems to be in charge where we might find Bar Tam Tam. Bar Tam Tam? she repeats, with a smiling incredulity. Bar Tam Tam?!! We are made to understand there is, in fact, no Bar Tam Tam. Or perhaps just not for us. Maybe we were supposed to respond to the strange lady by grinning demonically, nodding our heads and reapeating Bar Tam Tam!! Bar Tam Tam!! Who knows. We depart with stomachs full and whistles un-whetted.

We're not too far into the Sidi Bou Said night, but the town is already mighty quiet. Most of the businesses have closed up shop. There are the cafes with their requisite male clientele, but even they seem subdued.

We walk back up the hill. As we approach the stairway up to the hotel, Lee recommends that we walk on a bit. I'm happy to comply, as I'm feeling rather restless. It's been a full, tiring day, but all the same, it's not yet nine o'clock and I'm not quite ready to close out this part of our trip just yet.

As was the case Sunday afternoon, we find ourselves walking to the lighthouse and the nearby overlook. Oh, a large body of water at night. When you can't see it so much as sense it. The breeze and crashing of waves below the loudest sounds in the world. It's breathtaking and satisfying and I am now ready to call it a day.

Fortunately, Bar Dan Dan is open, in the form of a flask full of Jameson's, which I had brought for just such occasions. We take the odd nip as we lay in bed and read for a short while, Lee in the good company of Dawn Powell, me finishing the short story "A Way You'll Never Be" from The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

EVERY DAY IS THE LAST DAY OF THE SPECIAL BERBER EXHIBITION

sergei272 — Mon, 6 Apr 2009 13:12:00 GMT

I look up at the bricks of the vaulted ceiling for a time before I remember the strange place where I went to sleep. Eventually, the profound sense of dislocation fades. It's about 8:00 a.m. Monday morning and I've slept more soundly than I have in ages.

By the time I finish showering, Lee is out in the courtyard having breakfast. In what becomes a welcome ritual, we get coffee, some very fresh orange juice, a basket of bread and various spreads ranging from cheese, to fruit preserves to a nutella-like chocolate. While not a coffee drinker, I decide I better take my caffeine where I can, so I have a cup as well. After Lee finishes and heads back indoors to shower, I make nice with a cat that has slinked into the courtyard. I try not to be too offended when it bites me on one of the knuckles of my left hand.

*******************

Like most train lines, the tram from Sidi Bou Said into Tunis doesn't offer a lot in terms of scenery. Mainly the backs of buildings and the fairly drab blue and white stations. There's lots of stops for Carthage, but one gets no sense for how relatively posh the suburb actually is. What we do have, however, is a pretty good opportunity to do some people watching, as we seem to be the only tourists on board. Lots of people who seem to be on their way to work , a couple of older gentleman in the traditional fez-like chechias...a child standing with his father near one of the doors who's throwing up. I try to focus my attention elsewhere.

The final stretch of the line is down a long causeway that cuts through the middle of decidedly un-scenic Lac Tunis. We emerge from the Tunis Marine station and the eastern end of Avenue Borguiba, the broad, traffic heavy main street of the new town that leads to the medina. We cross a couple of the menacing main intersections and walk past the looming, gaudy clock tower in the median of the avenue.

And then, we meet Ali. Only later did we realize how completely by the book was his approach. He walked up to Lee and said something about recognizing her from the hotel, something about working as a night clerk and wanting to work on his English. Before we know it, we're following him toward the medina. He knows a good route into the medina that will avoid all the tourist souks, all the markets selling t-shirts and sneakers. He tells us that today is the last day of a special Berber exhibition. That sounds good, right? We'd like to see the Berber exhibition. Although I was more uptight about trailing Ali than was Lee with her typically good nature, I was still somewhat taken in by Ali's pitch.

So, into the medina we go, not through the grand Place de la Victoire but through a passage on the south side. I get used to seeing the back of Ali's white windbreaker and his baseball cap as we walk quickly into the medina. He kicks a soccer ball with a kid, he says hello to vendors and workmen. Who is this guy,the mayor of of Tunis? Had we given him enough enough time, he probably would at least have claimed to be related to half the people in the medina.

I'm annnoyed, because in just trying to keep up with Ali, I have even less sense of direction than I would otherwise. Plus, I don't want to spend half of my first day being dragged around by this guy, even if he is eagerly playing tour guide. But I try to keep my cool.

After browsing quickly through a couple of the older souks, we're taken to a large shop that is supposed to offer a good view from its roof. This, we eventually learn, is another typical come-on. Come in for the view, stay for the sales pitch. We parade up to the roof and it certainly is a refreshing view of the medina after being in the more claustrophobic lanes below. The skyline, such as it is, is pretty cluttered, but there's some colorful ceramic tiles along the ledge of the roof and a very good vantage point from which to look at the impressive minaret of the great mosque.

Ali takes our picture, which turns out to be the only valuable product of this encounter for me and then we're ushered downstairs for the sales pitch. The special Berber exhibition is a rug sale. Not a sale, just the selling of rugs, which happens in Tunisia with the regularity of of a clock ticking. We're lead into a room, the door is closed and the pitch begins.

Without any real encouragement from us,the proprietor has his assistant unroll all manner of rugs on the floor before us. Some of them are quite lovely. But I'm not buying a goddamn rug at this point unless someone puts a gun to my head. Perhaps our rug seller senses my mood, because the sales pitch goes on neither as long nor as aggressively as we expect. We assure him that we're not interested in any rugs today and we're politely sent on our way.

We're not done with Ali just yet though. He drags us to a perfume shop, which apparently is owned by a brother of his. What good fortune! Lee is presented with a variety of scents. On 20 dinars for a small bottle, for this is pure perfume, which can be diluted in water and used to freshen the home, delight the senses, blah, blah, blah. Perhaps to get on with our lives, Lee generously agrees to buy a couple of bottles. By this time, I've had my fill of Ali. Lee stops him long enough to say that we want to explore the medina without him. He asks for 20 dinars, a sum that I had already decided upon as worthwhile to get rid of the pest. At last, we're left alone to explore the medina.

The medina is a labyrinth. What says Rue de la Kasbah or Souk des Femmes is just a narrow lane that fits perhaps three people across. And straight lines seem to be the exception, not the rule. I pride myself on having a good sense of direction, but I'm hopeless in the medina. I have a feeling we're not in our grid-like Chicago anymore, Toto.

We're wandering around in the central medina now, trying to get our bearings. As a project, we decide to find the posh Dar El Medina hotel, a place we are considering for our last night in Tunis after we have completed a circuit of the country. Not only is it hard to find, Rue Sidi Ben Arous is undergoing road work of a sort. We have to step over workmen and more than one hole the ground to get there. The hotel seems every bit as exceptional as its website indicates, but I can't imagine hapless tourists finding their way to and from this location. We're allowed to look at one of the of the rooms, all ample space and simple elegance, as well as the view from the roof deck, where we are greeted unenthusiastically by an Italian couple, but we decide to pass on the hotel for now. I don't fancy the idea of dragging our bags down the torn up lane.

By this time, sitting down and having a cup of tea is sounding like a highly desirable activity. So we decide to try to find one of the cafes we had seen on our earlier peregrinations. Of course, we had seen so many things earlier.

To my surprise, now that we have wandered back toward the central medina and the Souk des Chechias, there's the very cafe I had in mind. As it turns out, this lovely cafe, which extends to both sides of the lane on which it resides, is the Cafe Chaouechin, the oldest in Tunis. We get off our feet, have a couple of teas with pine nuts and plan an escape route from the medina. However, I do want to come back to the medina and the Souk des Chechias. I really want a chechia. "Traditional Tunisian clothes can look rather silly on foreigners," my guidebook warns. "Shut up," my stubborn, silent retort.

***********************

This is what I had in mind. Place de la Victoire. Although it felt like a long walk, we were able to extricate ourselves from the medina without too many wrong turns. And here we are at the fairly grand expanse of the eastern entrance to the medina, at the end of Avenue Bourguiba, with it's modest, triumphal-looking arch, Bab el Bahr. This is the place where I wanted to enter the medina before our friend Ali swooped in.

We take a couple of requisite pictures, but we're really ready for lunch. As we walk into the new town, first back down Bourguiba, then down the adjacent Rue de Yougoslavie, the contrast of medina and the new town couldn't be more obvious. It's a contrast that obviously extends beyond traditional Arab and European ideas of architecture and housing to simple matters of expression, thought and interaction. All well and good, but we're hungry.

We find a sandwich shop and are lucky enough to quickly find ourselves in a booth, particularly given that every available table and chair in the place seem to be occupied. After we order our sandwiches, another fine ritual begins for us. A basket of bread arrives along with a small tray with olives and harissa paste. A gentleman who seems to be the proprietor stops at our table as I'm regarding the harissa and I finally understand that he means to warn me of its heat. I wish I could say in Arabic that it's okay, I've eaten enough vindaloo back in Chicago to heat a city for a month. But I can't even say "yes" in Arabic. So, I just nod knowingly. The harissa is very spicy.

The suited gentleman's next visit has him inquring of our politics, instead of our palattes. "Obama?" he asks. We both say yes and give him what we assume is the universal thumbs up signal. He smiles and walks away. Later in the meal he comes back and says "Iraq?" Iraq? Um...a country in the Middle East? Neighbor to Iran? Big mess? What are you looking for here? At last, he conveys that he wants to know what I think of the situation. "The sooner we get out, the better" I say. Right answer. He smiles broadly, shakes my hand and leaves us to our lunch.

This, as it turns out, is our only non-sunny day in the country. The sky had been steadfastly overcast since morning. But since it's not actually raining, we decide to explore Carthage on our way back to Sidi Bou Said.

Of the half dozen Carthage stations on the tram, we decide to disembark at Dermech, since it looks closest to Byrsa Hill and the Carthage museum. As we go from historic site to historic site in the country, I will appreciate that there's not a sign every three feet to tell us where we are. But at a place like Carthage, where the ruins are strewn over a considerable distance, amongst residential areas and other private properties, it requires a bit of exloring to find these world famous remains of another age.

After a discursive ascent up Byrsa hill we find the 19th century Cathedral of St. Louis and the adjacent Carthage museum. The cathedral is now a music venue called The Acropolium. How long, I wonder, did it take someone to make the first A-crap-olium joke? Moving heartlessly by the forlorn-looking souvenir stands, I make straight for a refreshement stand to purchase a bottle of Diet Coke, whose Arabic label delights me almost as much as The Acropolium. We purchase tickets that will admit us to all the Carthage sites and wander amongst the ruins in a lot next to the museum.

We can generally walk and climb where we will. I love actually putting my hands on architecture, performing a kind of connection across time touching of fingertips, placing my palm against cold stone. Back in Chicago, I get particularly handsy whenever I walk by Louis Sullivan's exquisite music store facade in Lincoln Square. There's plenty of opportunity for this sort of thing at the mismash of ruins outside the museum before we head down the hill to the theater and the Villas Romaines.

The theater, cut into a hillside, is not particularly impressive. There's a large stage and a big, metal framework in the middle of the bowl of seats. These sterile incursions of the modern world get very much in the way of any historic reveries into which a visitor might try to escape. But I suppose it makes for a cool setting for the Carthage International Festival. And it is a satisfactory place to have a seat and enjoy a bit of serenity.

Now on a narrow street beyond the thater, we walk by the modest Portuguese embassy and forgo the services of a couple of possible tour guides before walking into the Villas Romaines, or at least the foundations thereof. Atop a nearby hill, we shuffle through high grass to see the foundations of a Roman odeon. Although rather smaller than the large, restored theater from which we had come, there's something more compelling about this overlooked site which has been almost entirely reclaimed by nature.

Not only is the odeon nearly overrun with vegetation, it's also overwhelmed by the nearby, colossal mosque, whose looming minaret can be seen for miles. Apparently it can accomodate up to 12,000 people. It was built in honor of, and presumably at the behest of President Ben Ali. What do you do when the previous president had virtually every main street in the country named after him? Build a really, really big mosque.

As we exit the Villas Romaines area, I look at a couple of tables covered with souvenirs. What a sad, sporadic business it must be.

We have managed to save the best for last. As with the Villas Romaines, what we see at the Antonine Baths is really just the foundation or basement of what once was. Maybe it's our mutual love of ruins, but we're very happy roaming around these massive foundations, through what were mainly subterranean passages, all of it just stone's throw from the sea. "Those Romans," we say, not for the first time this day and certainly not the last time on the trip, awed by their engineering prowess and crazy ambition.

The wife of a French couple whom we had seen on the train - they approached Lee, asking if she spoke English and inquiring as to the best place to disebmark to explore the site - recognizes us and we chat for a moment. It doesn't sound like they're having a good day. She speaks of the difficulty of getting here from Hammamet where they're staying, and further travails with taxi drivers. While we were finding our way from Bursa Hill down to the theater, we had seen them in the distance on a horse-drawn coach. Despite our over-priced taxi ride yesterday and brief hijacking by Ali just hours earlier, I feel like we're more at peace in the country, adapting better than these two. Generally, I think if you can be lured into a horse-drawn carraige in a tourist area, you're kind of in trouble.

We speak of other Roman ruins. They're not going to make it to Dougga, but that have already been to the ampitheater at El Jem and she reports that it's stunning. I'm glad to hear of their good time and the happy prospect of our visit there in a couple of days. It's nearly closing time and she's spotted her husband. She actually seems quite nice. I hope enjoy the rest of their trip.

It easy nearly closing time, so we meander toward the front gate to the site, stopping by an early Christian crypt. When we get to the gates, they're closed and there's no one else around. And the gate seems to be locked. But fortunately, the other gate is not locked and we escape.

Once back in Sidi Bou Said, we wearily climb the hill back up into town, I'm reminded again that we still haven't stopped to see the guy's house on the main street and then we're home. Ah, the pleasure of the late-afternoon vacation siesta....

To cap of this first full day in Tunisia, we have decided to dine at the fanciest joint in town, Le Bon Vieux Temps. It is apparently the place where all the dignitaries check in while in Sidi Bou Said, affording as it does a great view from its dining room out to the bay. And they serve alcohol. Bibulous heathens that we are, this has quickly come to mean a lot to us in this relatively dry country. We dress up as much as we can and stroll over to the restaurant.

We're among the first diners and as we sit the wait staff outnumber the customers. They're quickly on top of any of our needs. The food is about as good as expected and we enjoy a white wine from nearby Carthage. In fact, we enjoy it again, in the form of another demi-bottle. We're in an elegant restaurant, there's plenty of wine, we're together and we're in Tunisia. We walk back down to the town center and then back up to the hotel with a strong sense of well-being.

TUNISIA: HOME OF THE SQUABBIT

sergei272 — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 10:16:00 GMT

We're working our way through the broad human river that is ultimately to sluice it's way through security at O'Hare when we're faced with two very sad sights.

To our left, a crying baby reaching desperately for its mother who is soon to leave it behind. It seems kind of torturous for both mother and child, and finally the grandmother holding the child comes to the same conclusion and the baby is whisked away wailing.

To our right, an even sadder sight. A man seated, picking an acoustic guitar plaintively and working his way through a cheeseball version of "Blackbird." In the duty free shop. His gig is the duty free shop at O'Hare. Hello indifferent audience! Are you ready to rock light?!! Now that's pathos.

This is my first experience with Air France and I'm liking it. There's lots of food and, perhaps not surprisingly, it's quite edible. There's bread and wine. Shocking. And movies on command. Lots of movies. I distract myself with second viewings of Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, Billy Elliot and bit of Quantum of Solace. Vive la France!

God, I hate the French. Two French women in front of us obliviously jack their seats back right after dinner, putting our viewing screens about two inches away from our eyes. While our minimal legroom has been cut in half, our two friends proceed to fall asleep straight away and sleep like babies...who have not been rent from their mothers at O'Hare.

I had forgotten how De Gaulle Airport tries so very hard, in its late 60's/early 70's way, to look modern. Here it works, and there...not so much. What really doesn't work is the shuttle bus system. Virtually our entire flight from Chicago is forced on a bus after disembarking so we can be driven to the terminal. The young woman herding outside the bus says something very quickly, probably something like "get on the bus you dreary Americans," while indicating with annoying gesticulation that we are to defy the laws of physics. Same routine when we board our flight to Tunis. Damn French.

The flight to Tusis both begins and ends, strangely, with the Smiths "Half A Person" playing on the airplane's soundsystem. 44 clumsy and shy/I went to Tunis and I/checked myself in at the...well, the passport checkin area, a predominantly turqoise affair at the Tunis/Carthage airport.

Not ten steps out of the airport and we walk into a scam. Our weariness and disorientation coming across like neon letters on our foreheads saying PLEASE, TAKE OUR MONEY, we're approached by a non-licensed taxi driver. He'll get us to Sidi Bou Said for trente dinars. Thirty. Gosh, doesn't the guide book say that it should be a seven or eight dinar ride? Well, we're quickly in the car and it's too late. At least its a nice car. How far did he say it was to Sidi Bou Said? 60 kilometers? 90 kilometers? Yes, that's fine, this big old metric system is awfully confusing. We'll believe anything.

One of my first sights in Tunisia, as we pull out of the airport and head toward our destination is the statue of a large rabbit-like creature, standing on two legs, with preternaturally large ears extending out from its head. Later in the trip, Lee will correct me and say that the mysterious creature looks more half rabbit/half squirrel. A squabbit, she says. The squabbit. Lee McLain, copyright 2009. It seems to be some sort of environmental movement icon or mascot, but we never get a satisfying explanation for the creepy squabbit.

Also, early on, proceeding toward Sidi Bou Said, we see men pouring across the roadway from the right. It occurs to me that they have probably just finished the 4:00 prayers at the large mosque nearby. The rhythms of the Muslim day, particularly the call to prayer at daybreak, will be a very pleasant backdrop, sonic and otherwise, to our fortnight in the country.

Before long, well before the 60 or 90 kilometer mark, we're heading up the hill into whitewashed, lovely Sidi Bou Said, past the presidential palace - "Ben Ali?" "Qui" - and to a narrow street above our hotel. We work our way through a group of German tourists in the narrow "street" outside the door to Hotel Bou Fares. This is slightly disturbing, as Lee and I had seen an exceedingly cheesy travel video some weeks before our departure which gave one the idea that Tunisia is positively crawling with Germans sunning, cavorting and riding horses quite suggestively. Nothing against the Germans, but we were hoping for something a bit more beyond our experience than a racy, Teutonic Club Med.

The hotel, like the village, is every bit as pretty as we thought it would be. But the mere temptation to be able to extend our bodies horizontally after so much flying is just too strong, so we crash a little while before heading out to explore and get dinner.

While it's hard to make sense of the town map in my travel book, it turns out we're just down a winding set of stairs from the the center of the action. The main street is fairly swarming, mainly with Tunisians who appear to have come up for the day from Tunis. The famous Cafe des Nattes is right at the base of street down from the hotel. Actually, the cafe itself sits atop its own set of stairs on which many people sit, as they do in the cafe's outdoor seating area at the top.

We work our way down toward the tram station and back up to the centre ville. In addition to the many souvenir sellers, one gentleman assures us that he's not trying to sell us anything, but he wants us to take a tour of one of the area's famous homes. I say something to the effect that we will be back, a promise of which he will remind me everything we pass in the next few days. I come to think of him as the "I want my two dollars" guy, as his dogged memory and persistence remind me of the paperboy from hell from Better Off Dead.

Although we are walking around in that cloud of unreality which is typical of the first day in a foreign country after a long journey, our stomachs assert themselves enough to encourage us to find some dinner. Eschewing the fancier places this first night, we wander into the modest Restaurant Chergui, where we get very plentiful orders of couscous, mine of the merguez (a spicyy sausage) variety, all of which we eat in the open air.

We explore more of the town after dinner. Its many alleys and winding streets would seem to lend themselves to a good pursuit scene in a movie. It's interesting to see all the subtle expressions of the blue and white color scheme in doors, shutters and window boxes. We stop to enjoy the formal scenic overlook that presents of a vista toward Tunis and the Cap Bon peninsula beyond. Even better is the view we happen upon near the lighthouse and small cemetery. This one is straight out to the Mediterranean. Although my senses feel a bit dulled from weariness and excess, it's hard not to feel the serenity of this spot and the power of the sea beneath us.

To cap off our first, brief evening in Sidi Bou Said, we venture up the imposing steps of the Cafe des Nattes for a cup of tea. Unlike the vast majority of cafes we will see around the country, the Cafe des Nattes is not a male bastion. The crowd is actually pretty mixed, both in sex and age. While we are seated on a raised cement area in the middle of the cafe, our legs dangling, a family is seated opposite us. Generally, it seems to be a young, hip crowd. Many people order chichas, hookah-like water pipes, but we opt for large glasses of tea with pine nuts and a small plate of patisserie.

And that is quite enough. We're back in our charming little room with it's high, bricked barrel vault of a ceiling and not-quite-adequate reading light. But there's not much reading on the agenda this evening. We're out quickly and sleep like the dead.